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By Reita Lambert: 

Lines to a Lady 
The Noble Art 
They Who Have 
And Both Were Young 





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Leauhful 
Lord Byron 


LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD COMPANY 

BOSTON 1938 NEW YORK 






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Copyright, 1938 
REITA LAMBERT NEVIN 


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re¬ 
produced in any form without permission in writing 
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes 
to quote brief passages in connection with a review 
written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


©Cl A 115811 




APR -S 1938 


To My Daughter 
PEGGY 












1 


^— 7 HE THOUGHT THAT STRUCK JUDD WHEN HE 

met her that first morning on the beach was that, in 
a world of human beings all conceived on the same 
plan, one could be so utterly, so miraculously, so 
divinely different. She was a medium-sized, sun- 
bronzed girl wearing the briefest of white bathing 
suits and a white rubber cap. She had been playing 
beach ball and it was in her pursuit of the bounding 
rubber sphere that she had reached Judd and Cliff 
before the others. 

Flushed and breathless, hugging the ball against 
the curve of her slender waist, she acknowledged 
Cliff Sidney’s introduction to his friend and college 
mate, Judd Harcott. “She is young,” Cliff said kindly, 
“but the little girl has possibilities.” 

She was, as Cliff said, young. The lashes that 
fringed her gray-green eyes curled up and back like 
a child’s. Her short nose was in the process of peel¬ 
ing, her smile was frank and sweet as a child’s. But 
her real “difference” lay in some vibrant quality of 
her spirit. She made Judd think of a runner poised 
on tiptoe—waiting for the signal— 


3 


4 And Both Were Young 

“What,” he asked her, “did Cliff say your name 
was?” 

“Lora—without the U,” she said. “Just LOR A.” 

He nodded, smiling, his eyes not moving from hers. 
“I like that. Lve never known a Lora without the U 
before,” he said. 

Then Cliff came up with other girls and they sur¬ 
rounded the newcomer, chattering, inspecting, ap¬ 
proving; “Here’s the new man—isn’t he lovely! Dar¬ 
ling, he’s almost too beautiful—are you sure he has 
a nice disposition? Well, his mother told us he was 
wonderful.” 

For Judd’s mother and father had already been in 
Forks Harbor for over a month. It was due to the 
persuasion of Cliff Sidney—whose family had been 
coming to the Harbor since before he was born— 
that they had deserted their Adirondack camp. Cliff 
and Judd had become inseparable friends during 
their three years at college, they planned to make 
the “grand tour” of Europe together after their grad¬ 
uation next June and this summer Cliff had wanted 
to show Judd off to his Forks Harbor friends. So 
the Harcotts had taken the Herris cottage and then 
Judd had blandly informed them that he and Cliff 
had decided to take a bit of a cruise in Cliff’s thirty 
foot cruiser and would join them later at the Harbor. 

This had a little dismayed his parents, but it had 
given Mrs. Harcott a month in which to prepare a 


And Both Were Young 5 

brand new audience for the advent of her only son. 
Thus while Forks Harbor listened to accounts of 
Judd’s superior endowments—mental, physical and 
spiritual—Judd himself was cruising lazily along the 
coast, wearing a pair of disreputable duck pants 
and nothing else, shaving once a week, adding to his 
repertoire of mildly risque stories and in general 
giving his mother the lie. 

But now those paradisaic days were over. Clean 
and brown and hard as a rain-washed boulder, he 
faced his inquisitors on the Forks Harbor Beach. He 
posed and flexed his muscles and gravely catalogued 
his qualifications as an applicant to that exclusive 
summer colony. The morning contingent of old 
ladies, knitting and sewing on the rocks in the back¬ 
ground, surveyed the scene with horror and drew 
the customary unflattering comparisons between the 
youth of their own day and these modern savages. 

Lora did not take part in the inquisition. She 
stood on the edge of the group, her eyes lively, her 
mouth still smiling. But she and Judd were conscious 
of each other, already in secret communication. He 
knew, when she turned and strolled down the beach, 
that she knew he was thinking of her, that he would 
follow her. And, fifteen minutes later, they were 
sitting side by side on the raft, the July sun beating 
harmlessly on their tanned bodies. Lora had taken 
off her cap and Judd realized that he had known 


6 And Both Were Young 

her hair would be like this—thick and curly and 
short and the shade of pale amber. A little darker 
and she’d have been a strawberry blonde, he thought. 

She said, “I believe you deliberately waited un¬ 
til the summer was half over so you could make a 
dramatic entrance.” 

“Well, I got a pretty good hand, didn’t I?” he 
said. 

“That was just the claque,” she said. “Your 
mother has been building you up ever since she 
came—‘My son Judd!’—in capitals.” 

“That’s going to be pretty hard to live down,” 
he said. 

“Well, you’re the first new family we’ve had at 
the Harbor for five years,” she said. “The first new 
one that’s had any eligible males to offer. That 
ought to be a help.” She leaned back, resting her 
weight on her spread palms. “And of course physi¬ 
cally you’re the answer to every girl’s prayer.” 

“To yours?” 

“I should say so!” 

“Good. The others don’t count. And now that 
the formalities have been observed,” he said and 
fished in an imaginary pocket for an imaginary pad 
and pencil and pretended to write, “Let’s get down 
to business. Your last name, please—not that I ex¬ 
pect to use it but it’s necessary for the records.” 


And Both Were Young 7 

His brows went up. “Paris! Like the city all good 
Americans go to die in?” She nodded and he said, 
“Okay. Age?” 

Need you ask?” she said. “Look at my white 
hairs. I’ll be a sophomore in September.” 

“In college! Oh, well, we’ll skip that. Color- 
lovely. Sex—absolutely. Tastes?” 

“Terrible,” she said. “I adore the funnies and 
Leslie Howard and chocolate ice cream and I hate 
gin and Dickens and cigarettes—” 

4 ‘Those are adolescent failings from which you 
will recover,” he said. “And now for the most im¬ 
portant question of all—is there a man in your life?” 

She made her eyes big. “I should hope so! I have 
a father and a brother—” 

“Relatives don’t count,” he said sternly. 

She laughed and inspected a small tear in her 
bathing cap. “Oh. I see what you mean. Well, now, 
let me think—” 

“Good! If you have to think the answer is no,” 
he said. 

This was the summer of nineteen-thirty-three; this 
was the regulation tone of the prelude to friendship 
between the young of that depraved era. Judd and 
Lora observed the rules as a matter of course, but 
underneath the mock solemn interchange, an older, 
subtler contact had been established. It was noth¬ 
ing that the eye could see, nothing for which the 


8 And Both Were Young 

world has yet found a name, but it was there. Lora, 
who had liked and played with boys all her life, 
found that this boy fitted into none of the emotional 
niches occupied by heir other masculine friends. 
Judd, who had had his heart broken three separate 
times and then prudently locked up the pieces, dis¬ 
covered that it was whole again and beating strongly. 
He thought, justifying that wild flutter in his breast, 
“Oh, well, I haven’t seen a girl in six weeks—” for 
he had still another year of college ahead of him 
and an important job waiting when he had got his 
degree. But Lora, as was her habit, gave herself 
recklessly to that moment; in which suddenly the 
world seemed lovelier and life sweeter than they 
ever had before. 

When Judd and Cliff walked back along the beach 
to their lunch, Cliff said, “No doubt the Paris child 
has unsuspected charms—I wouldn’t recognize them 
because I’ve known her since I was four—but if you 
could spread yourself a little thinner, the other 
girls’d appreciate it.” 

“Since you were four!” Judd said and looked with 
new respect on his friend. 

“That was the first summer her family came to 
the Harbor. Her mother used to let me roll her 
carriage on the beach sometimes as a very special 
favor.” He clucked reminiscently. “Lordy, she was a 
red baby!” 


And Both Were Young 9 

Judd didn’t laugh. He said, “Funny, mother men¬ 
tioned about every one of those girls in her letters 
except Lora.” 

Cliff gave him a sidewise glance. “Well, Lora’s 
kind of on the little side—easy to overlook.” 

But these two were too close for an evasion to 
pass unnoticed. Judd knew at once that it was an 
evasion. He said quickly, “Don’t be subtle. What’s 
the matter with her?” 

“Not a thing—Lora’s a swell kid. Her folks are 
swell, too, only, if your mother’s fussy about such 
things, she might object to the fact that Lora’s father’s 
a tailor. I don’t mean he actually sits cross-legged 
on a bench and sews things himself, and he has more 
money than most of his customers, but he’s definitely 
what is known as a tradesman.” 

Judd was no snob but this did startle him a little. 
“A tailor!” 

“Darned good tailor, too—has a very swanky ‘em¬ 
porium,’ George Paris. If you’d lived in New York, 
you’d know the name and he’d probably have made 
your first tux—he made mine. As a matter of fact, 
still does—makes dad’s too.” 

Judd was thinking of the tailor’s daughter who, 
he thought, could easily have passed for the daugh¬ 
ter of any proud crested prince. He recalled that 
she had seemed an integral part of that gay group 
on the beach and said, his thoughts reverting to his 


io And Both Were Young 

mother, “Well, your family accepts her, don’t they? 
They don’t hold it against her that—” 

“Lord, no!” Cliff said. “It was dad who got them 
up here in the first place—kind of sponsored them. 
We’ve played around together—twenty or more of 
us—all our lives, grown up together, you might say.” 
Then he added carelessly, “In the summer, I 
mean.” 

Judd looked at him. “You mean you don’t play 
around with her in town?” 

“Never happen to run into her.” 

“I see,” Judd said coldly and quickened his steps. 
Cliff hurried after him. “Don’t be a damn fool! 
I didn’t edit the Social Register and I don’t make 
out people’s invitation lists. If I don’t happen to 
see Lora Paris in town, it’s because she doesn’t go to 
the same places or do the same things I do. And I 
suppose that’s because her father’s a tailor and mine’s 
a Judge. I didn’t arrange things that way, but there 
they are.” 

There they were. And now Judd knew why his 
mother hadn’t mentioned Lora in her letters. Mrs. 
Harcott was a little fussy about such things. 

But Mrs. Paris mentioned Judd to Lora. At lunch 
she said, “Well, I understand the magnificent Judd 
Harcott has arrived at last. Is he a nice boy?” 

“He must be the world’s eighth wonder,” said 


And Both Were Young II 

Mr. Paris who had heard about Mrs. Harcott’s eulo¬ 
gies. 

“He’s a prince/’ young Hay Paris said in his raspy, 
almost fifteen-year-old voice. “Listen, you ought to 
hear him tell about the time the Reckless ran into 
that tornado off Nassau and lost their mainsail and 
their food got all water-soaked and they didn’t have 
anything to eat or drink all the next day till this big 
yacht sighted ’em—” 

So it was not necessary for Lora to answer her 
mother’s question. 

The young crowd accepted Judd as their parents 
had already accepted Judd’s father and mother. This 
was something of a triumph, for the Harbor was 
not quick to accept newcomers. But the Harcotts 
ideally fulfilled the slightly finical exactions of the 
Summer Colony which prided itself on being ex¬ 
clusive but not fast, well to do but not showy, con¬ 
servative but not prudish. Most of the summer 
cottages at the Harbor had been owned and occu¬ 
pied by the same families for many years. Changes 
were invariably deplored, especially by the mothers 
of growing children. Because, they said, one “wrong” 
family would be enough to upset the traditions es¬ 
tablished by the right ones. A good many Harborites 
could well remember the flurry good-natured Judge 
Sidney had caused them when he had recommended 
the place to his New York tailor. But George Paris 


12 And Both Were Young 

and his pleasant, tactful wife had soon proved them¬ 
selves to be a gentle, likable couple, as “particular’’ 
about their children’s morals and manners as the 
most fastidious among them. 

The Harcotts were not like the Parises, of course. 
Mr. Harcott was a prosperous banker, his wife’s 
family had been in the Boston Social Register for 
three generations. They were a little stand-offish, 
but that merely emphasized their eligibility. And 
Judd was the right kind of young man. He swam, 
danced and played tennis as well, but no better, than 
the other young men. He was handsome—thick, 
ruddy brown hair, ruddy brown eyes, a straight, steely 
strong body—but no handsomer than many mothers’ 
sons. He had an ingratiating way with old people 
and children and still managed to be popular with 
his contemporaries. Even before all these facts were 
apparent, Mrs. Paris had declared him a decided as¬ 
set. She said as much to Mr. Paris at the Saturday 
night boat club dance on the evening of his arrival, 
“I think Judd Harcott is going to be a decided 
asset.” 

“Lora appears to think so, too,” Mr. Paris said. 

Lora and Judd were dancing together at the mo¬ 
ment. His head was bent to hers, she was looking 
up into his eyes, but they did not seem to be talk¬ 
ing. Even as Mr. Paris watched them, they seemed, 
without words, to reach some decision. They stopped 


And Both Were Young 13 

dancing and turned and went out through the open 
French window that gave on the porch. 

Mrs. Paris said, “She does, doesn’t she? Well, I’m 
rather glad. I was beginning to think she was im¬ 
mune—” 

Lora and Judd sat down on the porch steps. The 
porch borrowed a little light from the windows of the 
club and a little from the richly starred sky. It was 
a welcome change from the brightly lighted ball¬ 
room. “Nice,” Lora said, “Much better than danc¬ 
ing,” though she loved to dance. 

Judd agreed. “You bet. This is swell.” 

Beyond the beach and the pier, the sea was black 
save for the riding lights of anchored boats and a 
circlet of more distant lights. Lora pointed to them. 
“That’s the Sweetmans’ yacht out there.” 

“Must be some boat,” Judd said. 

“It’s marvellous. They put in here every summer 
for a week or so. They’re terribly rich.” 

He said, “I’ll bet they are,” and then, in a lower 
voice, “I’ve been looking forward to this all after¬ 
noon, Lora Paris.” 

“To seeing the Sweetmans’ yacht?” 

“You know that’s not what I mean.” 

She laughed shyly, not looking at him. “What do 
you mean?” 

“Well, if you just want to hear me say it, to see¬ 
ing you again.” 


14 And Both Were Young 

She had wanted to hear him say it. Up to that 
point they might have been two strangers meeting 
at a sick friend’s bed. The easy cameraderie of that 
morning on the beach had gone with the sun. He 
had been startled to find how changed she was in 
her evening dress. It was a diaphanous affair of sea 
green chiffon and the long, trailing skirts made her 
seem taller, older, more slender. Her bright hair 
was brushed close to her head, held off her face by 
a wreath of tiny white rosebuds. Her lips were 
rouged and there was a film of powder on her sun¬ 
burnt nose and cheeks. 

He had looked different to Lora, too, in his white 
flannels and blue coat. She had told him so. “I’d 
hardly have known you.” 

“Clothes do make a difference,” he had said and 
they had both tried to laugh. 

All afternoon she had said to herself, a kind of 
song, “I’ll see him tonight! I’ll see him at the dance! 
I’ll dance with him!” And it had come about exactly 
as she had foreseen, except for this strangeness. What 
had happened to them so naturally and beautifully 
on the beach that morning, made them shy of each 
other in the conventional atmosphere of evening 
dress and artificial lights and the calculated rhythm 
of dance music. 

But, after they had sat for a few moments on the 
porch, talking a little, often silent, the strangeness 


And Both Were Young' 15 

lifted. The music drifted out to them, dissolved in 
the salty evening air. Now and then someone came 
out to ask Lora to dance but she said no, later, per¬ 
haps, it was too warm-” 

She said suddenly to Judd, “I was just thinking— 
it’s almost August. Summer is nearly over.” She 
had never thought that before, never thought that 
August meant summer was nearly over. 

“And to think,” he said, “that I might have been 
up here for a month.” 

She said simply, “I wish you had been.” 

“So do I. If I’d known—” there he stopped and 
turned and looked at her. “If I’d known you were 
here, I would have been.” 

She drew a filmy chiffon handkerchief through 
and through her fingers. “Well, we—you’ve still got 
a month—a little over a month, really.” 

He said, “I know a way you could help me make 
up for lost time.” 

“Tell me how.” 

“You’ll think this has a fresh and nutty flavor,” 
he said and grinned a little sheepishly as though he 
thought so, too, “but if you’ll give me the rest of 
the summer—kind of take me on as a special chore- 
go places, do things with me—” 

He stopped and she laughed. “You’re terribly 
rash. You’d probably get sick and tired of the sight 
of me.” 


16 And Both Were Young 

“You know darn well I wouldn’t.” 

“I don’t know,” she said and looked at him. The 
laughter went out of her face when she saw how 
gravely and intently his eyes were fixed upon her. 
“You don’t know either—how could you?” 

“Don’t ask me. I just know. How about you?” 

Lora didn’t know how about her. She was sud¬ 
denly frightened of the things they were not saying 
and, as suddenly, her fears were gone and the magic 
of the morning was back. Every familiar sight and 
sound took on a new, and dazzling beauty, a new 
meaning. Her senses rang with the joy and wonder 
of it for nothing like this had ever happened to her 
before—perhaps nothing like this would ever happen 
to her again. And so she said in a quick and breath¬ 
less little voice, “Well, I—I guess I might risk it.” 

And Judd said, “Okay!” and they smiled shakily 
at each other through the thin white light. 



2 


T WAS A HOT AUGUST NIGHT AND MR. AND MRS. 

Paris were sitting on the side porch when the Harcotts 
drove in. Mrs. Paris was surprised. She had not 
expected the Harcotts to call. She had met them 
at the club, played in a bridge tournament with 
them, but she had not expected them to call. “Why, 
I believe it’s the Harcotts, dear,” she said and laid 
down her knitting and went to meet them. 

Mrs. Harcott said, “We were driving by and you 
looked so cool in here—our house isn’t getting a 
vestige of this lovely breeze.” 

“Well, that’s a break for us,” George Paris said 
affably. “Come and sit down. How about a drink? 
I’ve got some pretty fair Scotch.” 

But Mr. Harcott declined the Scotch. “I’m too 
fat to drink whiskey on a night like this.” 

“There’s plenty of gingerale on the ice,” Mrs. 
Paris said. “You’ll both have some gingerale, I 
know.” And, as she seated her guests, she said, “It 
isn’t often as warm as this at the Harbor.” 

“Now, now! Where have I heard that before?” 
Mr. Harcott said and they all laughed. 


17 


18 And Both Were Young 

George brought out the gingerale and a plate of 
sugar cookies and presently the two men were smok¬ 
ing and talking politics. Neither was deeply in¬ 
terested in the subject but they had little else in 
common. Julia Paris and Mrs. Harcott were not 
much better off. Mrs. Harcott was a little on the 
civic-conscience, club-woman type; slightly heavy as 
to build and manner, impeccably groomed and 
coiffed, an excellent talker. Julia, in spite of the 
fact that her hair was nearly white, looked younger 
than her forty-eight years. She had kept her slender 
figure, her cheeks were pink, her blue eyes bright 
and eager. Her interests were chiefly domestic; she 
thought George the best husband and Lora and Hay 
the finest children in the world. But, being a sensible 
woman, she was also a sensible mother. She had 
preached the gospel of simplicity and honesty to her 
children and that they were simple, honest children 
was traceable to this and to the fact that she herself 
practiced what she preached. Julia Paris was, in 
short, a contented woman and looked it. 

“One would never believe you were the mother 
of an eighteen year old daughter,” Mrs. Harcott 
said now. “Your Lora is eighteen, isn’t she?” 

“Eighteen and a half,” Julia said. 

“Still, she’s just a little girl after all—still in col¬ 
lege, isn’t she?” 

“Yes, she’s at Lockwood. A sophomore next year.” 


And Both Were Young 19 

“And my big boy has another year to go,” Mrs. 
Harcott said and sipped her gingerale. 

“Yes, Lora told me,” Julia passed the cookies, took 
one herself. “My husband and I think your Judd’s a 
pretty fine boy.” 

Mrs. Harcott laughed. “You’ve certainly had 
plenty of opportunity to observe him. It seems to 
me he’s here more than he is at home.” 

“We love having him. As a matter of fact, he’s 
not really here much—just while he’s waiting for 
Lora to dress. She’s at the pokey age, you know.” 

“I see. They’re out together tonight, aren’t they?” 

“Yes. They’ve gone to the movies, I think.” 

“Well,” Mrs. Harcott said, “as I was saying to 
Bailey this morning, we mustn’t begrudge him his fun 
this summer. He’ll have very little time to play 
during the next few years—very little time for any¬ 
thing but hard work. His father’s putting him in our 
New York branch when he comes back from Europe 
next fall.” 

“How nice!” 

“Oh, it won’t be much of a position at first— 
Bailey believes every boy should carve out his own 
future—not have things made too soft for him. He’s 
going to pay Judd exactly what he would pay any 
other inexperienced beginner—which means that 
he’ll be practically a pauper for a few years.” She 
smiled across at Julia. “But a single man can man- 


20 And Both Were Young 

age on very little these days and Judd isn’t the type 
that marries early, thank goodness.” She shook her 
beautifully coiffed head and sighed. “These early 
marriages—I don’t approve of them at all, do you? 
Disastrous in nine cases out of ten—” 

The firm, well-bred voice went on and on and now 
Julia Paris understood what it was trying to say to 
her. She went quite cold with indignation and dis¬ 
gust. To put that construction on a boy and girl 
friendship! So that was why the Harcotts had called 
—to warn them to call off Lora! 

“I don’t know what you call an early marriage,” 
she said wickedly. “I was married at nineteen.” She 
smiled blandly on her guest. “And it wasn’t ex¬ 
actly disastrous!” 

“Oh, but everything was so utterly different then,” 
Mrs. Harcott said, suave and light. “Young people 
were so different in our day—so much more respon¬ 
sible and grown up, don’t you think?” 

“Good gracious, no! I think we were dreadful 
little saps—if you’ll forgive the word—repressed, sly, 
sentimental, muddle-headed little saps.” She stopped 
to laugh, a little dismayed by what she had said and 
the way she had said it. Then she added, “Why, Lora 
has more sound sense at eighteen than I had at 
twenty-five.” 

It was a moment or two before Mrs. Harcott re¬ 
plied. She took a long drink of gingerale, nibbled a 


And Both Were Young 21 

cookie. Julia found that her stomach was shaking 
and envied the admirable self-control displayed by 
Judd’s mother. 

That lady said at last with a humorous lift of 
nicely arched brows. “Well, I wish I had as much 
confidence in Judd. But he’s a very intense, romantic 
nature—too susceptible for his own good, I’m afraid 
—not that any sensible girl is going to take a boy of 
that age seriously.” 

“Meaning,” Julia thought wrothily, “that even 
if he is rushing Lora she isn’t to take him seriously!” 
Aloud she said lightly, “Well, that’s fortunate, isn’t 
it?” 

And Mrs. Harcott replied, “Fortunate for all con¬ 
cerned. Bailey’s really a very indulgent father but 
I can easily imagine him cutting Judd off with the 
proverbial shilling if he were to do anything silly- 
get himself involved in any premature love affair.” 
She looked straight at Julia. “It would be love in 
an attic for them with a vengeance, I’m afraid.” 

Julia was by nature a direct, plain-spoken woman, 
unversed in the art of innuendo. It took all her con¬ 
trol not to say, “Thanks for the warning,” but she 
bit back the words and managed a smile as non¬ 
chalant as Mrs. Harcott’s. She said, “That should 
protect him, shouldn’t it? Love in an attic isn’t the 
modern girl’s idea of married bliss—or so I gather 
from hearing Lora and her friends discuss the mari- 


22 And Both Were Young 

tal state. They not only reject the attic but insist 
on all the modern conveniences—” 

But after the Harcotts had left and George Paris 
had had his yawn out, his wife repeated that conversa¬ 
tion. The evening had closed in, it was dark there 
on the porch. She could not see her husband’s face 
and he did not speak until she wound up her story 
with an indignant “What sort of parents do they 
think we are!’ 

But instead of betraying anger or shock, George’s 
voice was grave. “I don’t know. Maybe we’re the 
kind they think we are.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“I’ve been thinking those two kids were getting 
a little too thick for their own good,” he said. “Every 
day and every day, morning and night—he’s practi¬ 
cally the only boy she’s been out with for the past 
three weeks. Maybe you hadn’t noticed that.” 

“Of course I’ve noticed. He’s her first crush— 
and he’s a nice boy. A dear boy. Every girl has 
to go through this sort of thing sooner or later and 
I’d rather it would be with Judd than some of the 
others.” 

He said dryly, “Judd’s mother doesn’t think as 
well of Lora as you do of Judd.” 

“She wouldn’t think well of any girl he was inter¬ 
ested in, probably.” 

“She might,” he said, out of the obscuring dark- 


And Both Were Young 23 

ness, “if she thought the girl was good enough for 
him.” 

“Good enough for him!” She glared at the darker 
shadow of his figure. And now she was glad he 
couldn’t see her. For he was right. Suddenly she 
knew that as clearly as though Mrs. Harcott had 
told her in that firm, nicely modulated voice of hers, 
“No tailor’s daughter is good enough for my son!” 

Julia clamped her teeth together. It would be 
like a woman of that type, a newcomer, to make a 
point of something the Harbor had accepted for 
seventeen summers. She said this to George in a 
voice full of scorn. 

George said, “Yes, but her case is a little different. 
None of the other boys has fallen in love with Lora. 
If it came to anything as serious as that, their par¬ 
ents might object, too.” And at her cry of disbelief, 
he said, “Oh, they’ve been pleasant enough summer 
neighbors—why shouldn’t they be? Lora’s been as 
well brought up and educated as any of the rest of 
the kids and I’ve kept their boat club off the rocks— 
they can afford to let the bars down for three months 
in the year, let their kids play with ours just as we 
let Hay play with Zeb’s boys.” Zeb was a “native” 
who supplied the Harborites with fresh fish. “But 
you notice they don’t cultivate us in town any more 
than we’d cultivate Zeb.” 

Julia’s indignation had given place to confusion. 


24 And Both Were Young 

It was true that the Harborites did not “cultivate” 
the Parises in town. Lora did not see her summer 
playmates from September to June. She had never 
minded that, probably never thought of it. Neither 
had Julia. They had their own friends, their own 
busy lives to lead. 

George was saying, “Maybe it was a mistake to 
keep on coming up here. It was all right when she 
was a child but now she’s growing up—” 

He stopped and lit a cigarette. The tip glowed 
red as an evil red eye through the thick summer 
night. Now that she was older, she might fall in 
love with some boy whose parents would think her 
not good enough for him! “It’s sickening,” she said. 
“As though we —but it’s too silly. Not worth worry¬ 
ing about. They’ll both be back in college in another 
few weeks.” 

George said mildly, “Well, maybe you better have 
a little talk with Lora. We don’t want any unpleas¬ 
antness after all these years.” 

“Don’t worry! I’ll talk to her! But I’m not go¬ 
ing to tell her the real reason Mrs. Harcott objects 
to her. She’s never thought of such things in her 
life—I’m not going to make her class conscious now.” 
And, after a little she added savagely, “It’s insult¬ 
ing! Intolerable! I hate that woman. I knew the 
minute she came up on the porch that she was an 
arrogant snob! I hate her!” 


And Both Were Young 25 

She was ready for bed, in her nightgown and negli¬ 
gee, when she heard Lora come in. She waited a 
moment and then knocked on her daughter’s door. 
‘‘May I come in, darling?” 

Lora was sitting on the side of her bed. She had 
made no attempt yet to undress. Her white flannel 
coat still lay across her shoulders. Her gray eyes 
were wide and luminous, her hair curled in sea damp 
ringlets against her flushed cheeks. She blinked a 
little when her mother came in. “Oh! Hello, mum! 
You still up?” 

“I should ask you that!” Julia said lightly. “A 
little girl like you keeping such hours—why, it’s mid¬ 
night and after.” 

“I know, darling. We meant to come home ages 
ago but after the movie—it was such a wonderful 
night—we went down and sat on the rocks.” Her 
eyes gazed past her mother in dreamy reminiscence. 
“The moon on the sea was so heavenly and it was 
all so quiet and lovely—” 

“It must have been,” her mother said. She wanted 
to turn and go out. She felt an intruder, felt oddly 
abashed in the presence of such innocent ecstasy. 
But she knew that now, indeed, she must stay, say 
what she had come to say. She stooped and kissed 
the girl’s cheek. “I don’t really mind, darling. I 
wasn’t worried—only—were you and Judd alone on 
the beach?” 


26 And Both Were Young 

“I think so. I didn’t see anyone else.” 

Julia sat down on the bed, took her daughter’s 
hand. “Darling, don’t you think it would look a 
little better—be a little kinder, too—if you didn’t 
concentrate on Judd quite so much?” 

Lora turned and looked at her, frowning. 
“Kinder?” 

“I mean—what’s become of your old crowd—Cliff 
and Royal and Earle and the girls? Aren’t you 
afraid they’ll be hurt if you spend all your time 
with one boy?” 

“I hadn’t thought of them—you see we have so 
little time, mother. He’ll be going so soon.” 

“You mean Judd? But so will all of you, my pre¬ 
cious. You’ll all be leaving.” She gave a little laugh. 
“That’s all the more reason why you shouldn’t neg¬ 
lect your old friends.” 

“I think they understand,” Lora said. 

“Understand what, dear?” 

“That—that Judd and I want to be together.” 

Now Julia recognized the change in her child. 
She wondered how she could have been blind to it 
before. It was so appallingly obvious. It was in the 
girl’s voice, in her wide, rapt eyes. Even her body 
seemed to have been remolded, planed down and 
refined by some secret process of the spirit. 

“But, darling,” she said, feeling more inadequate 
than she had ever felt in her life. “I don’t think you 
should be together so much. After all—” 


And Both Were Young 27 

“I love him, mother.” Lora lifted her head. Her 
color had faded, her face was aglow with a white 
radiance. “We love each other. I was going to tell 
you soon but I—I couldn’t talk about it just yet. It’s 
so wonderful—I never knew anything could be so 
wonderful.” 

Julia’s heart sank. She warned herself, “Easy, 
now!” reminding herself that she was supposed to 
be a modern, understanding parent. “Well!” she 
said. “This is a surprise! When did it happen?” 

“The first day—the day he and Cliff came. I met 
him on the beach. I think we both knew—even 
then.” 

“Love at first sight!” 

Lora looked quickly at her mother. “Yes. You’re 
not laughing, mother!” 

“Good heavens, I shouldn’t dream of doing such a 
thing!” Julia said. “I remember too well what I suf¬ 
fered the first time I fell in love—or, rather, the first 
time I thought I was in love.” 

“Judd and I don’t think. We know!” 

Julia said indulgently, “My sweet, you’re just a 
little girl and this is your first romance—mind, I’m 
not scolding you. Every girl goes through this sort 
of thing sooner or later—it’s all a part of growing up. 
But you mustn’t take it too seriously. My goodness, 
you’ll probably be in and out of love half a dozen 
times before the right man comes along.” 

“Oh!” Lora stood up. Her coat slipped to the 


28 And Both Were Young 

floor and she stood rigid in her long white dress and 
looked at her mother with hot, indignant eyes. “How 
can you say anything so horrible!” 

“Lora!” 

“It is horrible! It—it’s indecent. If I thought that, 
I’d loathe myself. If I thought I could ever love 
another man the way I love Judd, I’d—I’d rather 
die!” 

“Now you’re talking melodramatic nonsense,” 
Julia said. “I admit Judd is a nice boy. I’m not 
surprised that you like him. But love! You’ve 
known him only a couple of weeks—and you’re little 
more than children. What can either of you know 
about loveV’ 

“But love isn’t something you learn,” Lora said, 
her eyes fixed, solemn and anxious on her mother’s 
face. “It just happens. The way it did with Judd 
and me. We didn’t ask for it, it just happened.” 

“What happened,” Julia said lightly, “happens to 
nearly every normal boy and girl. Fortunately, I 
understand that—but I’m afraid Mrs. Harcott doesn’t. 
That’s why I thought it best to speak to you about 

• . 99 

It. 

“Mrs. Harcott! Judd’s mother?” 

“She came over here tonight ostensibly to share 
our breeze but really to let us know that she doesn’t 
approve of Judd’s seeing so much of you.” Lora 
sat down in the chair beside her dressing table and 


And Both Were Young 29 

her mother went and put an arm around the girl’s 
shoulders. “Oh, she was civil enough but she made 
it very clear that she doesn’t like this affair at all.” 
Julia laughed and stroked her daughter’s fair hair. 
“The whole thing is utterly absurd of course. The 
idea of her getting all wrought up over an inno¬ 
cent vacation friendship. She evidently hasn’t as 
much confidence in that boy of hers as I have in my 
girl.” 

Lora’s small cold hands closed convulsively on 
her mother’s. “It isn’t just a vacation friendship, 
mother. You don’t understand—” 

“Don’t be trite, darling. Of course I understand. 
It’s because I do understand that I’m going to ask 
you not to go out alone with Judd again.” 

“But, mother!” 

“I mean it! If I’d had any idea this thing had gone 
so far, I’d have put a stop to it long ago.” She had 
determined that she would not lose her patience, but 
that interview with Mrs. Harcott had worn her self- 
control too thin to bear the further strain of know¬ 
ing that that admirable woman’s warning had come 
too late. “You’re not to see him again,” she re¬ 
peated, firmly. “When you’re a little older and 
know a little more about life, you’ll understand why 
and thank me.” 

Lora said nothing, just stood there rigid and color¬ 
less as a little ghost. Julia went as far as the door. 


30 And Both Were Young 

forced herself to go back and kiss her daughter’s 
cheek. “Now, go to bed—it’s frightfully late. Good 
night, dear!” 

But when she went back to her own room, she 
felt frustrated and terribly depressed. She sat down 
on her bed and told George about it; “Of course, 
I pretended it was nothing serious—I didn’t want 
to make a big issue of it. But it is serious—I never 
dreamed—if you could have seen her face when she 
told me—” 

“Joan of Arc hearing her voices, eh?” George Paris 
said. He had been sitting up in bed reading and 
waiting to hear the result of that interview. He 
reached across and patted his wife’s hand. “I suppose 
that’s the way love is at eighteen.” 

Julia said grimly. “Yes. It can be such a terrible 
thing—or such a wonderful thing. Only we can’t let 
it happen to her—not with Judd.” Her hands fisted. 
“It might have been better to tell her the truth—tell 
her why they object to her! That might have roused 
her pride at least.” 

George asked gently. “What did you tell her?” 

She gave him a bitter smile. “Lies. I talked like a 
Noel Coward heroine. You’d have been surprised— 
but not half as shocked as your modern daughter 
was.” 

“Love,” George said, “is easily shocked. It’s a 
very old-fashioned emotion. But she’s young. She’ll 


And Both Were Young 31 

get over it and next summer, if I can get away, well 
take her abroad.” 

And, on the porch of the Herris cottage, in the 
thin light of the waning moon, Judd was facing his 
own private tribunal. Bailey Harcott had looked 
dubious when his wife had announced her inten¬ 
tion of speaking to their son. He had said, “Better 
not. Why not let it ride? Hell be back in college 
soon and if he is interested in the girl, it’s just calf 
love. But if you start criticizing her—” 

“Heavens!” Marie Harcott said and lifted her 
brows. “Do you really believe me capable of any¬ 
thing so primitive? Naturally that would be the 
worst thing we could possibly do.” 

“Then, how the dickens—” 

“I’m going to say just enough to make the whole 
affair—and the girl too—appear ridiculous to him. 
And don’t worry, it will! Modern youngsters aren’t 
the sentimentalists we were, my dear.” 

This was pretty subtle for Mr. Harcott. In his 
opinion, if a boy was making a fool of himself he 
should be told so in so many words. That’s the way 
his father would have handled the business. But 
perhaps the modern methods were a little more 
genteel. 

And so Mrs. Harcott was saying to Judd now, in a 
voice that was at once affectionate and casual, “I 


32 And Both Were Young 

thought I ought to speak to you on her account as 
much as your own, darling. Girls of that age are 
inclined to be romantic. The little thing might be¬ 
gin to think she was really fond of you. ...” 

“She’s not a ‘little thing,’ mother. She’s—” 

“—and that would be too bad—for both of you. 
It’s always unfortunate for a boy in your position— 
not yet out of college—to let himself get too deeply 
involved—” 

“I’m not keen about that ‘involved,’ mother. You 
sound as though you thought Lora had deliberately 
set out to—” 

“And Fm not keen about your tone of voice, 
son,” his father said. “You’re talking to your 
mother.” 

“Sorry. But you don’t understand—either of you. 
I can’t let you speak of Lora like that—I’m not a 
child. I’m of age—” 

“No man’s of age,” Bailey said angrily, “until he’s 
independent. And until he is independent—able to 
support himself and a wife, if necessary, he has no 
right to get himself involved in a love affair!” 

Judd clenched his hands, his face went quite 
white and Marie Harcott said, “Please, Bailey! Let’s 
not have a scene. We know it’s not as serious as all 
that, Judd. We know you wouldn’t be foolish enough 
to handicap your future—good gracious! It will be 
years before you’ll be in a position to pay serious 


And Both Were Young 33 

attentions to any girl. You realize that as well as 
we do. But we do think it’s unwise of you to rush 
one girl the way you’ve been rushing Lora Paris. 
Not that she isn’t a nice little girl, considering the 
kind of people she—” 

‘‘She’s the finest girl I ever—” 

His father burst out, “She may be a fine girl, but 
you’re seeing too much of her for your own good. 
Your mother and I don’t like it—we want it stopped. 
There’s the whole thing in a nutshell.” He said it 
loudly, drawn up to his full height which still left 
him half a head shorter than his tall son. He had not 
intended to say anything of the sort. He had in¬ 
tended to be as suave and diplomatic as his wife had 
desired, but Judd’s attitude had confirmed his fears 
that the young fool really was in a fair way to mess 
up his career before it was even launched. That 
was an intolerable thought and, for a moment, he 
had forgotten that modern parents did not bully 
their young. Modern parents and children were sup¬ 
posed to be good pals. Mr. Harcott thought of this 
in time and added heartily, “Understand, we don’t 
want to spoil your fun. We don’t expect you to be a 
monk—have all the girls you like—the more the mer¬ 
rier. I mean, have your fun but don’t try to get it 
all in one place.” 

Judd winced from this indulgent speech, his nos¬ 
trils quivered with distaste. He had just come from 


34 And Both Were Young 

the moonlit beach where he and Lora had sat, their 
hands locked, their voices hushed by the beauty of 
the night, the miracle of their love. They had dis¬ 
cussed their future long and gravely, and Judd had 
come home resolved to confide their secret to his 
parents as Lora was to confide in hers. 

He had known that his father and mother would 
be surprised, that they might try to talk him out of 
engaging himself to Lora while he was still in col¬ 
lege. He had been prepared for this, for opposition, 
a scene, tears. But he had not been prepared for this 
airy dismissal of the thing that was more sacred, 
more vital to him than anything that had ever hap¬ 
pened to him before. Without a word he turned and 
walked into the house. 



ORA WALKED FROM FORKS HARBOR WHERE THE 

summer cottages and the boat club were, to Forks 
Village which set a mile back from the rocky coast. It 
was a late August morning and the tall old elms 
along the way and the green lawns and flower beds 
behind their white picket fences, looked a little dry 
and dusty. Lora loved the old village. The low- 
roofed white houses with their small windows and 
prim doorways, always made her think of patient, 
clean old women waiting for the minister to call. 
She loved the ancient green where sheep had once 
grazed and joyous soldiers had once foregathered. 
But she did not notice these things this morning. She 
walked briskly, slender brown arms swinging, the 
narrow yellow ribbon around her head matching 
her sleeveless linen dress. Once or twice someone 
hailed her and she waved back but did not stop. Some 
village men lounging in front of the drugstore stared 
at her, one or two of them who knew her, said, 
“Morning, Miss Paris,” with that mixture of curi¬ 
osity, contempt and wistfulness which is the charac¬ 
teristic attitude of the “native” toward the “summer 


35 


36 And Both Were Young 

people.” Propped against the curb in front of the 
Candy and Soda Emporium, she saw her brother’s 
bicycle. She frowned at that and quickened her 
pace, but she was not quite quick enough. As she 
came abreast of the entrance, Hay came out, slam¬ 
ming the screen door behind him. 

He said, “Hey! Hi, Sis! Where y goin?” 

Hay was going to be a very presentable young man 
one of these days but at the moment he resembled 
nothing so much as one of those large jointed wooden 
dolls so popular with little boys and girls. In his 
extremely short khaki shorts and sleeveless jersey, 
the lumpy similarity was startling. He was all knees, 
elbows and ankles, strung together on lanky, brittle 
looking bones. His ears stood straight out, his blond 
hair grew every which way, his very fair skin was 
in the process of peeling for the third time since 
June, his mouth was stuffed with candy. 

Lora said casually, “Hello, darling. I thought you 
were going sailing.” 

“I am. Cliff’s waiting for the tide. Where ’y* 
goin?” 

“Oh, just for a walk.” 

Hay mounted his bicycle and began propelling 
himself along beside her, one foot on the curb, the 
other on the pedal. “I bet I know where you’re 
goin’. What do you bet I know?” 

“Hay, you’re drooling all over your shirt!” 


And Both Were Young 37 

Hay swallowed and drew the back of his hand 
across his lips and gave her a wide, sticky grin. “I 
bet you’re goin’ to meet Judd.” 

“The tide’s full at ten,” Lora said. “It must be 
almost ten now.” 

“I bet you are,” Hay said, both feet on the pedals 
now and wabbling dangerously. “When I asked 
Cliff if Judd was cornin’ out in the Reckless with 
us, he said no, Judd had a date.” 

“Well, maybe he has.” 

“An’ I know who with!” 

“Listen, Hay!” She went to the the curb and took 
hold of a handlebar and he stopped. “Don’t say that 
again, dear. Please don’t.” 

Hay was disturbed by his sister’s softly urgent voice 
but naturally he couldn’t afford to let her see that. 
“Aw, I was only kiddin’,” he grumbled. “What’s 
eatin’ you lately, anyway—all this Lady Macbeth 
stuff!” 

“Hay, you won’t say that to anyone else—that I’m 
going to meet Judd, will you? I’m not asking you 
to tell a lie—I wouldn’t do that, dear, but you don’t 
have to say anything about seeing me up here, do 
you?” 

Though the situation between Judd and Lora had 
never been discussed before him. Hay knew as much 
about it as anyone. After all, he was not a stupid 
boy. He said now, scornfully, “Oh, I’m not goin’ to 


38 And Both Were Young 

say anything. It’s none o’ my business if you want 
to go sneakin’ off to meet a man! / know I wouldn’t 
do it. If / wanted to see anybody I’d see ’em right 
out where everybody could see, see!” He wheeled 
his bike around and made off down the Harbor road, 
his body bent low over the handlebars in approved 
racing fashion. 

Judd was waiting behind the old white church, 
his roadster parked in the shade of a maple tree. Op¬ 
posite the church was the quiet graveyard where the 
village had buried its dead for two hundred years. 
The church and the parsonage and the graveyard 
took up the whole of the short street—“And the 
parson’s busy and the dead won’t tell,” Judd had said 
when he selected the place for a rendezvous. 

When he saw Lora turn into the street, he sprang 
out and went to meet her. They walked back to the 
car, arms interlocked, having spoken not one word. 
But when they were seated in the car, his eyes went 
hungrily over her. “Gosh, I’m glad to see you!” 

“I’m kind of glad to see you, too.” 

Then he stepped on the starter and they drove 

off. 


“That’s the fifth time,” said Miss Ermina Hedd, let¬ 
ting the curtain fall back across the sitting room 
window of the Parsonage. “If you’d come in here 
a minute sooner, you’d of seen them yourself.” 


And Both Were Young 39 

“Seen what— Oh, our young lovers, you mean?” 

“Five days hand running,” Miss Hedd said to her 
brother and took off her glasses through which she 
had watched the meeting between the slim fair¬ 
haired girl and the tall brown-haired boy. “First he 
comes in that car and then she comes—they were hold¬ 
ing hands brazen as you like.” 

The Reverend Frederick Hedd, who was quite 
old and slightly bent but had the youthful face of 
all truly good old men, smiled mischievously at his 
sister. “Well, how could they know you were spy¬ 
ing on them?” 

Miss Hedd was annoyed. “I don’t see anything 
to joke about. You can be sure their parents don’t 
know they’re meeting like this or why should they 
do it?” 

“I don’t know Fm sure, my dear Mina. Have 
you seen my spectacles? I’ve lost them again.” 

Mina said waspishly, “Well, if I was a minister of 
the gospel and saw a thing like that going on right 
under my nose, I’d do something about it.” 

Her brother peered under a lamp base, shook out 
a sofa cushion in his search for the missing spactacles. 
“I’m afraid you would, Mina. I’m very much afraid 
you would, my dear,” he said. 

Two miles from Forks Village, Judd left the road 
and drove through a small grove of pines to a rocky 


40 And Both Were Young 

ledge high above the sea. From that height the 
breakers crashing on the rocks below, looked gentle 
and harmless. Distant boats with their sails full 
of wind appeared to be standing still on the water. 
Both Judd and Lora gazed out over the sea for a 
moment, then at the same instant they turned and 
smiled at each other. Judd slid his arm behind her 
head and drew her face up to his. 

Afterwards, for a long time Lora lay quietly in 
his arms, her head in the hollow of his shoulder, 
his chin resting on her hair. At last she stirred and 
said, “Judd, I hate this—having to meet in this sneaky 
way. It spoils things a little.” 

“I hate it, too. But we wouldn’t be doing it if 
there was any other way, naturally.” 

Neither of them saw anything odd in that remark. 
What they were doing was quite natural and neces¬ 
sary. Their love had been forced into clandestine 
channels. This was sad but they must make the best 
of it. They had so little time, now. Summer was 
gathering in the lovely days so swiftly. 

Lora said now, “Only six more days, darling.” 

“Don’t remind me!” His arms tightened around 
her. “Lora, Lora, how am I ever going to live with¬ 
out you all those months!” 

“Don’t try. Take me back to Haverton with you. 
You can hide me under the bed and smuggle me up 
food in your pockets.” 


4i 


And Both Were Young 

“Or you might take me with you,” he said. 

"Expose you to all those girls!’ she cried. "Never! 
It’s going to be bad enough when you come up for 
the prom—you will come, Judd?” 

"Try and stop me!” 

"I won’t—but somebody else will,” she said. 

He said grimly, "Let them!” 

She laughed a little and clung to him. "I love 
you so, darling! Judd, you’re sure you won’t forget 
me?” 

"Lora! How can you?” 

"Oh, I know you won’t mean to, but you’ll be so 
far away. You’ll be meeting new people—new girls. 
So many things can happen—that’s what our parents 
are counting on. They don’t think our love will last 
—they think it’s just silly boy and girl stuff—that we’ll 
forget all about each other. And that’s what they 
want, Judd.” 

"I know. And that’s where the joke’s going to be 
on them, isn’t it?” He held her away and searched 
her eyes. "Could you forget me, Lora? Don’t you 
know you’re mine—forever and ever?” 

She closed her eyes and he drew her back to him. 
She said, against his cheek, "Yes. I’m yours. I know 
that—and that’s what makes it seem so silly—for me 
to be afraid.” 

"Afraid, Lora darling?” 

"To let you go. This has been so wonderful— 


42 And Both Were Young 

Judd, do you think life will ever be so wonderful for 
us again?” 

“More wonderful when we can really belong to 
each other, dear.” 

She was quiet for a little, then, “It seems such a 
long time. It wouldn’t, I suppose, if they’d believe 
in us—if we could really be engaged.” 

“Or married!” he said so loudly and suddenly 
that she looked at him with frightened eyes. He 
took her face between his hands. “If you were my 
wife, nothing could happen to separate us. Do you 
realize that, Lora? Darling, will you marry me now 
—will you marry me today?” 

“Judd! You—you don’t mean that!” 

“Why shouldn’t I mean it? If it hadn’t been right 
for us to belong to each other, why did this happen 
to us? And why should we wait? We’re no younger 
than plenty of couples who’ve made a success of 
marriage. We’re sure of our love, aren’t we?” 

“We—yes, we’re sure of that.” 

“And what’s a college degree? Plenty of fellows 
get along without ’em. If I go back to college—well, 
you said yourself that’s what our parents are count¬ 
ing on. They think this’ll wear off—that we’ll for¬ 
get. And they’ll do everything in their power to make 
us forget, be sure of that! And how do we know 
they won’t succeed!” 

She cried, “Judd!” 


) 


And Both Were Young 43 

He said passionately, “Lora, let’s not risk it, dar¬ 
ling! Let’s take a chance. I can get a job—some kind 
of a job—enough to keep us. And we’ll be together. 
Lora, will you do it? Will you, my darling?” 

She went from white to scarlet, her breath came 
quick and light through her open lips. She said in 
a whisper, “Yes—” 

“Darling!” 

“But not—not that way. I couldn’t let you lose 
your degree—take a job. I couldn’t do that to you, 
Judd. But if—if you’ll promise to go back to col¬ 
lege—if you’ll let me go back home right after the— 
wedding, I—I’ll marry you today.” 

“Go back—leave you—” 

“Don’t you see, that would make everything all 
right. Everything would be different then—if we 
were married—we’d know nothing could separate 
us then—till death did us part—you remember how 
it goes, Judd?” 

“I remember. Lora—” 

“I’d wear the ring around my neck and every 
night I’d put it on my finger—” 

“Your wedding ring,” he said. 

“Nothing could take that away from us—we’d 
both be safe. And then in June—they’d believe then 
that it was real—they’d have to believe us, then, and 
we could tell them—” 

“Yes,” he said. “In June we could tell them—” 


44 And Both Were Young 

She pressed her face against his and he kissed her 
eyes which were wet. Awed, reverent kisses. 

There are moments of exaltation so dazzling that 
the effect is like looking into the sun. It was like 
this with Judd and Lora. They could see nothing 
but the splendor of this plan of theirs. It was such 
a beautiful plan, so sane and reasonable. They must 
still be separated but it would be a separation hal¬ 
lowed by the knowledge that they were man and wife. 
Surely, they would be harming no one by the simple 
joining of their lives and loves. “To feel that I am 
yours—to know that you are mine!” was the burden 
of their rhapsodic song. 

“My wife, my own beloved little wife!” 

“Yes.” And, after a little, Lora said, “Darling, 
could we go to that dear old church in the village— 
our trysting place, you know? It’s so sweet and 
peaceful and no one in the village knows us. If we 
tell the minister just how things are, hell keep our 
secret, I know.” 

Judd liked that idea, too, remembering the slen¬ 
der white spire and the rambling old parsonage half 
buried under its leafy lilac bushes and rambling 
roses. “But I think we’d better not get our license 
in the village, dear. We can drive over to Salem 
Rocks. Can you get away right after lunch? We can 
buy the ring there, too—” 


And Both Were Young 45 

Lora was never to forget that lunch with her par¬ 
ents the day she promised to marry Judd. There 
were just the three of them. Hay was still out on 
the Reckless —“Catching us a mess of fish for dinner, 
so he says!” George Paris said and laughed. 

Hay’s mother said loyally, “Well, whatever he 
catches, we’ll have to eat, so you may as well be 
prepared.” 

They lunched on the screened porch overlooking 
the garden, an old-fashioned patchwork quilt of 
delphinium and phlox and foxgloves and coreopsis. 
The smell of the flowers and the sea was sweet and 
heavy in the lazy midday heat. George’s Adam’s ap¬ 
ple rode free of his open shirt collar and Julia looked 
cool and young in her flowered linen dress. They 
were in a merry mood. George teased Lora about 
her freckles, “Darned if she hasn’t got a new one- 
right on the tip of her nose, too!” 

Her mother said that was because Lora had in¬ 
herited her fair skin. “Never you mind, darling, 
it’s better to have a few freckles than a face like an 
old suitcase like someone I might mention,” she said, . 
and winked at her daughter. 

Lora didn’t have the heart to wink back. They 
were so sweet. They were old and hard and love to 
them was a forgotten word. But they were hers 
and it was terrible to think that she must hurt them. 


46 And Both Were Young 

She thought of it like that. It was one of the things 
she remembered long afterwards—that fatalistic sense 
that she must do what she was doing, that she and 
Judd must make their love secure against the hostile 
forces they were sure would be launched against it. 
Though she had never loved her parents more ten¬ 
derly, not once did she waver, not once did it oc¬ 
cur to her to turn back. 

The Garden Club was holding its annual exhibi¬ 
tion at the boat club that afternoon and when they left 
the table, Julia said, “Don’t forget, you promised to 
serve on the refreshment committee, darling.” 

Lora had forgotten, but she smiled and said, “Oh, 
yes!” She was astonished that she could be so cool 
and wondered if perhaps she wasn’t the wickedest 
daughter in the world. “What time do you think I 
should be there? I—I have to go up to the village 
first.” 

“Oh, if you come along about four-thirty or 
five—” 

Four-thirty or five. By that time, she would be 
wearing her wedding ring next to her heart—“I’ll 
be there,” she said and went up to her room to 
change. 

It was a small, low ceiled room. The woodwork 
was white and there were ruffled curtains at the 
windows and hooked rugs on the floor. The small 
spool bed and chest and table were of soft old maple. 


And Both Were Young 47 

Lora had slept in that room every summer of her 
life. As she had grown older, it had grown smaller 
and the sea, which she could see from the window 
beside her bed, had come closer. 

She went and stood at that window now thinking 
that when she stood there again, she would be Judd’s 
bride—spiritually and legally she would be a wife. 
And that was all they needed or wanted right now, 
that would be enough. 

She took off the little yellow dress, the ribbon off 
her hair. White for the bride. She chose a plain 
white crepe dress, fresh and spotless. For something 
new she would carry the little white silk bag her 
father had bought her on one of his trips to New 
York. She was in and out of the tub in five minutes. 
She brushed and brushed her hair until it shone. 
Then she tied it back with a narrow blue ribbon— 
“something blue,” she thought. 

When she was ready, she looked at herself in the 
mirror. Clean and slim and fragrant; white and 
gold. Did she look like a bride? She thought Judd 
would think she did. 

It was a little after five when Judd and Lora went, 
arm in arm, up the flagged walk of the Parsonage 
and pulled the old fashioned doorbell. Miss Ermina 
Hedd answered it and her mouth dropped open when 
she saw those two standing on the mat. 


48 And Both Were Young 

“Good afternoon,” Judd said. “Is the minister at 
home? I’m sorry to say I don’t know his name.” 

Miss Hedd’s sharp eyes went from the man to the 
girl. The gates of Heaven had opened just wide 
enough to shed a little of its immortal glory on those 
two young faces. But joy that is worn like a light 
was an offensive thing in Ermina’s eyes—especially 
when it is illicit joy, which her previous knowledge 
of them convinced her that it was. Her first impulse, 
as she afterwards confessed, was to say the minister 
was not at home and send them away “with a piece 
of my mind!” Though this would have been a hein¬ 
ous lie and she revered the truth, she would have 
done so if she had not feared her brother’s wrath. 
But she knew he had heard the bell, he would have 
to be told who had rung it and she could not lie to 
him. 

“Yes,” she said, “he’s in. But he’s very busy writ¬ 
ing his sermon. Is your business important?” 

The color flooded Lora’s cheeks and she moved a 
little closer to her lover, but Judd said clearly and 
firmly, “We want to ask him to marry us, if he 
will.” 

“Well!” Ermina said. “Well!” But there was 
nothing for it but to let them in. She stood aside, 
her head high, her thin nostrils quivering. “Come 
in—step into the parlor, please. I’ll speak to him.” 
She hurried down the hall to her brother’s study. 


And Both Were Young 49 

Frederick heard his sister out without moving, 
without speaking. His eyes still on the papers be¬ 
fore him, his pencil still poised, he listened to his 
sister’s indignant, shrill voiced story. 

“I knew all along they were up to something like 
this. They’re eloping. I’m as sure of it as I am of 
my own name and if you marry them, you’ll be 
committing a terrible sin.” 

“That,” he said, “is for me to decide, my dear .” 1 
He took off his spectacles and laid down his pencil. 
“If they are of age and their license is in order, 
they’d have no trouble getting someone else to marry 
them even if I refused.” 

“Well, at least the sin wouldn’t be on your head! 
Why don’t you notify their parents? They’re from 
down at the Harbor—summer people—you can tell 
that with half an eye. You could telephone the girl’s 
parents.” 

He sighed again. “Parents are often no wiser than 
their children, Mina.” He stood up, pocketed his 
spectacles. “You must leave this to me. Ask them to 
come over to the vestry, please. I’d rather talk with 
them there—” 

Ermina Hedd was a virtuous woman, a devoted 
sister, a matchless housekeeper; charitable to the 
poor, merciful to the sick. But she possessed none of 
those softer qualities to which we can, no doubt, 
trace the old adage that all the world loves a lover. 


50 And Both Were Young 

If driven to it, she would have been hard pressed to 
say which she despised more—lovers or the “summer 
people.” That Judd and Lora should thus fall un¬ 
der the stigma of her two most ardent antipathies, 
was unfortunate. But it was not entirely responsible 
for her determination to frustrate their design if she 
could. By the time she had retraced her steps to 
the parlor, she had convinced herself that the salva¬ 
tion of this erring pair lay in her own, two capable 
hands and her thin cheekbones burned with re¬ 
ligious fever. 

The two young people, seated very close together 
on the haircloth sofa, stood up as she entered and 
looked at her eagerly. “I forgot to ask your names,” 
Ermina said. 

“He wouldn’t know me—my name is Harcott—” 

“And the young lady’s?” 

“Miss Paris—” 

“Well, Mr. Hedd says he’ll see you in the vestry 
—you can go out the side door—right this way— 
across the lawn—” 

And they were no sooner out of the door than she 
had the telephone receiver off its hook. She said to 
the operator, “Mattie, I’m in an awful hurry. Do 
you know the number of a family down at the Harbor 
named Paris?” 

“Sure. It’s three nine ring two four. Shall I ring 
’em?” 


And Both Were Young 51 

“Please, Mattie—and ring ’em hard, will you?” 

So Mattie rang the Paris’s telephone hard and Hay, 
just off the Reckless and looking for someone to ad¬ 
mire his catch of four beautiful if slightly under¬ 
sized mackerel, answered it. He informed the ur¬ 
gent voice at the other end of the wire that neither 
Mr. nor Mrs. Paris was at home, that he wasn’t sure 
when they would be. That, yes, if it was important 
he might be able to find them, they were probably 
at the Garden Club Exhibit. Yes, he could deliver 
the message— 

Years afterward, the memory of those few moments 
was still fresher in Hay’s mind than any other. The 
feel of the drowsy summer afternoon, the smell of the 
sea and of his own fishy hands, the sounds that drifted 
in through the screened windows—children’s laugh¬ 
ter, the put-put of the fishermen’s boats, a radio play¬ 
ing that summer’s sentimental hit—“The Boulevard 
of Broken Dreams.” 

Hay was not yet fifteen, half boy, half man. For a 
moment after he had hung up the receiver, he felt 
terribly helpless and confused, frightened, too, by 
the portentous message he had agreed to deliver. He 
drew his bony forearm across his forehead and said, 
“Gee! Golly!” Then he started across the room on 
a run. But at the door he stopped. He had, as all 
boys have, his own code of ethics. It suddenly oc¬ 
curred to him that what he was about to do was some- 


52 And Both Were Young 

thing he had never done before. Never had he been 
a tattle tale, never had he betrayed a friend. And 
Lora was more than friend—more to him than any¬ 
one else save his father and mother. He remembered 
her face that morning, how sweet she had looked, 
how sad. “I wouldn’t ask you to tell a lie. Hay—” 
And he admired Judd, too. He admired Judd more 
than any young man he knew. And now he was 
going to let ’em down. Well, he wouldn’t do it. 
He’d be darned if he would. It wasn’t his affair. If 
people wanted to get married—and she couldn’t 
marry a nicer guy than Judd—and Judd would be 
his brother-in-law— 

“Hello, darling, when did you get back?” His 
mother came, cool and smiling up the porch steps. 
“Did you catch anything—why, Hay! What is it, 
darling! What’s the matterT’ 

If he had had a little more time—but here was 
comfort, here was the calm and loving strength that 
makes a boy weak sometimes and after all, Hay was 
only a boy. He broke into a boy’s rasping sobs— 
and out came the story. 



EORGE PARIS SWUNG HIS CAR INTO THE SHADY 

street where the white spire showed above the elms 
and Julia said, “This must be the place,” and George 
nodded and jammed on the brake. 

Mrs. Harcott leaned forward from the back seat 
and screamed above the screech of the brake, “Is this 
the place?” 

Julia screamed back, “I think so—that’s Judd’s 
roadster there, isn’t it?” and opened the door. She 
and the Harcotts were out of the car before it had 
come to a full stop. George followed, slamming the 
door behind him. 

George had said they would make it in five minutes 
and he had been right. Where they had lost time was 
back at the Harbor. First Julia had had to rush over 
to the Clubhouse to find her husband and when 
George had heard Hay’s story, he had insisted upon 
hunting up the Harcotts. Fortunately they were still 
at the club—Mrs. Harcott presiding over a flower 
booth, her husband in the game room. George had 
got them outside, away from the crowds before he 
had told them. Then he had hustled them all into 
his car. 


53 


54 And Both Were Young 

Every detail of that brief drive to the village, with 
the hot afternoon sun in their faces, was indelibly 
stamped on Julia’s mind, the way Mr. Harcott’s 
plump face had seemed to crumple; the way his 
wife’s had gradually waked from its expression of 
dazed disbelief to one of deadly fury and resentment. 
“To elope—like a common—I can’t believe Judd 
would do such a horrible thing. He never would 
have done it of his own volition!’’ 

Her burning eyes were fixed on Julia, an obvious 
impeachment of her son’s seducer and the seducer’s 
parents. Julia thought, “Of course she would blame 
Lora! The girl’s always to blame!’’ and she looked 
at George. But he sat tight-lipped at the wheel. If 
he had heard he had the good sense to give no sign 
and Julia followed his example. “Lora! Lora! 
Lora!’’ she thought. 

No, it was not a pleasant ride— 

But they were no sooner out of the car than Ermina 
Hedd came running down the flagstoned path to 
meet them. She had been watching at the window. 
She said breathlessly, “It’s all right. They’re not 
married yet. I told my brother I’d sent you word 
and he said for you to come over to the vestry—this 
way—” 

The small vestry was close with the smell of dust 
and ancient hymnbooks and moldy Axminster. As 
his callers entered it from the garden, Mr. Hedd 


And Both Were Young 55 

came through the inner doorway leading into the 
body of the church and closed the door behind him. 
He said, “Good afternoon!” to the quartet filing in, 
blinking their sun-blinded eyes, peering this way and 
that. His glance rested briefly on each one of the 
four—the plump pink man in white flannels, the 
lean man in knickers, the two women in their simple, 
light summer frocks but with that unmistakable city 
air and manner characteristic of all the summer 
people at Forks Harbor. 

Ermina started. “These are the parents—” 

But Mr. Harcott interrupted. “My name is Har- 
cott—” 

“Judd’s father,” the old minister said with a little 
bow. 

“I’m his mother.” 

He bowed again and looked beyond her. “Then 
you must be Mr. and Mrs. Paris?” 

“Yes.” Julia pushed past Mr. Harcott. “Your sis¬ 
ter telephoned—this is a terrible shock to us all. 
Where are they?” 

“They’re inside—in the church—” The four of 
them surged forward but the minister stepped back 
against the inner door, his hand uplifted, palm 
toward them. “Wait, please. They’re quite com¬ 
fortable and safe in there and if you don’t mind, I 
should like to have a few words with you before you 
see them. Won’t you sit down?” 


56 And Both Were Young 

Bailey Harcott said crisply, ‘'Thank you, but 
we’re hardly in the mood—” 

“Please sit down. You needn’t wait, Mina.” 

He was a simple, country parson in shabby, ill-fit¬ 
ting clothes. His voice was singularly sweet and mild. 
But Ermina turned promptly and went out and Julia 
and Mrs. Harcott dropped automatically into two 
slatted Sunday School chairs. George did not move 
from his place near the door but Mr. Harcott glared 
at Frederick and no doubt would have spoken if the 
old minister had not spoken first. “Your children 
and I have had a nice, long talk—as fine a boy and 
girl as I’ve met in a long time, by the way—and they’ve 
told me frankly just how matters stand,” he said. 
“They’ve told me you disapprove of their attach¬ 
ment for each other but I must confess they were a 
little vague about the reasons.” He took off his spec¬ 
tacles and smiled round on them benevolently. 
“Since my sister felt it her duty to notify you of their 
impending marriage, I thought it as well to postpone 
the ceremony, give you an opportunity to state your 
objections—” 

They could not believe their ears. State their ob¬ 
jections! “Do you mean,” Bailey Harcott said 
hoarsely, “that you actually would have married 
them—after they’d confessed they were doing this 
without their parents’ knowledge and consent?” 

“A parent’s consent,” Frederick said tranquilly. 


And Both Were Young 57 

“is unnecessary in cases where the young people are 
of age. However, if you can show just cause why—” 

“Just cause!” Marie Harcott repeated, shaking. 
“Isn’t it cause enough that they’ve come to you like 
this—to ask you to marry them secretly—” 

“Not always,” the minister said. “When a young 
couple comes to me in these circumstances—specially 
as high-principled a young couple as Judd and Lora 
—I look about for the reason. Experience has 
taught me that there would be no secret marriages if 
there were a better understanding between parents 
and children. You see, in my opinion, there are no 
bad children—only bad parents.” 

“That is not the case here! Judd’s father and I 
have always been in perfect accord with him—” 

“You mean you had no objection to Judd’s court¬ 
ing Lora?” 

Bailey Harcott answered for his wife. “Courting 
her! I tell you the boy’s still in college. He can’t 
support himself to say nothing of a wife.” 

“He doesn’t intend to support her,” Frederick 
said, “until he is through college. They have no 
idea of consummating their marriage before that 
time. They merely wish to go through the cere¬ 
mony—” 

“Ridiculous!” Mrs. Harcott cried and Frederick 
looked at her. 

“It doesn’t seem ridiculous to them,” he said, “nor 


58 And Both Were Young 

to me, my friend. It does seem sad, very sad that they 
should feel themselves compelled to take such a 
course—” 

George Paris spoke up suddenly. “You’ve hit the 
nail on the head there. Doctor! I mean when you 
say they felt compelled to do this, well, I can see how 
they would. They’re romantic and sensitive—at 
least, our Lora is—and they’ve magnified our ob¬ 
jections until they’ve got, well, what you might call 
delusions of persecution. Where we made our mis¬ 
take was in not taking them more seriously, but we 
didn’t. We didn’t take them seriously at all.” 

“That’s the modern way, isn’t it?” Mr. Hedd said. 
“It’s unfashionable to take things seriously these 
days, isn’t it? Especially anything as quaint and 
antiquated as love.” 

“This is absurd!” Marie Harcott said impatiently. 
“For us to sit here dramatizing a boy and girl in¬ 
fatuation, which is all this is. They’ll live to thank 
us for interfering—at least, Judd will. He’s not in 
a normal frame of mind, he couldn’t be. He never 
did an underhanded thing in his life before—until 
he met this girl—” 

“The same is true of Lora,” Julia cried, “until 
she met this hoy! And please remember, Judd is 
nearly four years older—” 

“If he were ten years older, he would still have 
been putty in her hands. She has monopolized him 
from the first day he arrived—” 


And Both Were Young 59 

“She— that’s not true! Judd has been at our house 
morning, noon and night—” 

‘‘Yes, and you let him come. You knew quite well 
what it would lead to. You hoped—” 

“I hoped for nothing. I never gave it a second 
thought. I liked Judd and trusted him—” 

“Because you knew it was to your advantage to 
trust him! Because you knew perfectly well she’d 
probably never have another chance to make such 
a match—” 

The two husbands had been making those in¬ 
articulate sounds and vague gestures peculiar to em¬ 
barrassed males. The old minister stood quietly, 
fingering his spectacles, his narrowed eyes swinging 
between the two enraged woman. Now Bailey Har- 
cott laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder, “Marie!” 

She turned her blazing eyes on him. “You know 
it’s true. You’ve said yourself they’d never have been 
accepted in any other community like this! They 
wouldn’t have been accepted here if they hadn’t 
bought their way in—” 

Julia Paris sprang from her chair and across the 
room, planted herself before the minister. “Let me 
by, please! I must see my daughter!” 

He stepped back until he was flat against the door 
and shook his white head slowly. “So this is what 
drove those two poor children to me.” 

“Let me by, please! You can’t keep a mother from 
her child!” 


60 And Both Were Young 

“I beg your pardon, I can. While that boy and 
girl are in my church they are in God’s care—and 
mine.” His old voice rang like an organ tone in the 
small room. “Why should I give them up to you? 
What effort have either of you ever made to under¬ 
stand what was in their young hearts! None. I see 
that now! Love came to them, but because it did 
not come at the time or in the way you approved, 
you belittled and ridiculed it. You repelled them 
with your sophistries, threw them back on each other 
for the comfort and understanding they should have 
found in their parents!” 

Marie Harcott said hotly, “They would never 
have been happy—” 

“Rubbish!” the old voice boomed and they shrank 
back. A terrible old man in his wrath was the coun¬ 
try parson. “How do you know they wouldn’t—how 
could anyone know? But you weren’t thinking of 
their happiness—you were thinking of yourselves, 
your own personal animosities—your social appear¬ 
ances. Now, when the damage is done, when it’s 
too late, you come crying and pleading—” 

“Too late!” Julia said, sharp and breathless. 
“You—you mean you would marry them against our 
wishes!” 

“Why not? They came to me with the purest of 
motives, their license is in order, they are of age, 
they love each other. As to your objections—you 


And Both Were Young 61 

have failed them. You have failed them in their 
first great emotional crisis and parents who fail their 
children can’t expect to be honored by them. I 
am not sure that I would not be failing them too 
if I were to part them now, when they have come so 
far—to the very foot of the altar.” 

It seemed preposterous to them afterwards, that 
they should have allowed themselves to be reduced 
to speechless confusion by a simple country parson. 
Marie Harcott was the first to throw off his spell. 
She was a proud woman and, at the moment, a 
furious one. But she was also clever. It was plain 
the old man was a fanatic. And so she said, very 
gently and gravely, “Why not let us discuss this with 
Judd and Lora? Why not let them decide—” 

“They have already made their decision. I doubt 
if any one of us can alter it.” 

“We can try.” 

He appeared to consider this, his faded blue eyes 
fixed thoughtfully on his folded hands. Then he 
said, “It might be that we could persuade them to 
agree to an engagement—” the stir that created 
stopped him, but only momentarily, “If they would 
and if you would sanction an engagement between 
them, we might persuade them to wait—” 

The four exchanged quick, dazed glances and old 
Frederick talked on, his voice rising and falling in 
solemn pulpit cadences. But he was scarcely aware 


62 And Both Were Young 

of what he said now. He was watching them anx¬ 
iously, wondering if they would see through this 
strategic move of his. He was a little alarmed at his 
own temerity but not at all conscience-stricken. The 
future of those two waiting in the quiet church, lay 
in his hands. “The right to pledge their love 
openly—that is all they ever wanted—” 

Bailey Harcott interrupted. “In the circumstances, 
it might be the wisest thing to do. If Mr. and Mrs. 
Paris—” 

“The only thing we can do, as far as I can see,” 
George Paris said grimly. 

Marie Harcott cried, with a half hysterical laugh, 
“Why, of course! It’s the very thing. They’ll cer¬ 
tainly agree to that—and it will give us time—” 

The radiance that had flooded the minister’s face 
died away. He saw now that he had been mistaken. 
The future of that boy and girl did not rest with 
him, after all. Once outside his church, once back 
in their own world, they would be subject to its 
doctrines and those were not the doctrines of a 
simple country parson. He had done what he could 
but now he recognized, with a sad, devastating cer¬ 
tainty, that it had not been enough. His shoulders 
sagged as he turned and led the way into the church. 


V_^HE REVEREND FREDERICK HEDD’s CHURCH WAS 

a small, unpretentious place. Its pews were painted 
white, its altar of uncarven oak, its plain glass win¬ 
dows were fringed with the ivy that blanketed its 
outer walls. A humble little church but it had the 
serenity and dignity common to every House of God 
which, unlike other houses, sees human nature only 
at its Sunday best or subdued by those solemn crises 
which punctuate man’s prosaic biography. 

Lora and Judd sat in one of the front pews, their 
hands and arms interlocked. Mr. Hedd had fore¬ 
warned them. They had been shocked and fright¬ 
ened for a moment, but that had passed. They were 
prepared for open battle now. Their faces were 
white, Judd’s eyes narrow and rebellious, Lora’s 
wide and eager. In her heart she was glad their 
secret had been forced into the open. Now they 
could proclaim their love, fight for it honestly. 

But they were not to be permitted to fight, there 
was to be no battle. Mrs. Harcott’s first remark 
made that apparent. She said, hurrying to them, at 
once indulgent and gently reproachful, “You two 

63 


64 And Both Were Young 

silly children! What do you mean by running out 
on us this way!” And the others were quick to pick 
up the cue: “You should have had more faith in 
us!”—“My darling, if you had come to me frankly—” 
“Lora, you should have known—” 

It was not a long interview. Neither Frederick 
nor the elopers were permitted a voice in it until the 
parents had had their say. As their purpose dawned 
on Judd and Lora, their abortive attempts to speak 
ceased altogether. They could only look at each 
other with dazed, incredulous eyes. But there is 
something oddly unsettling in the discovery that 
one’s supposed enemies are in reality harmless, well- 
meaning folk; in finding that the bridges so valiantly 
burned behind one, have been magically rebuilt 
for a victorious retreat. 

“—an engagement,” Mrs. Harcott was saying. 
“Then if you feel the same toward each other after 
Judd has graduated—” 

They had gone as far as that when the church rang 
suddenly with Lora’s sharp outcry, “No! We don’t 
want that, Judd—not now! This—it’s the same as an 
engagement. You tell them, Mr. Hedd!” She pulled 
frantically at Judd’s sleeve. “Judd, tell them it’s all 
settled. We can’t change things now!” 

But Mr. Hedd had told them and Judd merely 
flung an arm around her, held her close, “Darling, 
don’t you see, it’s all right, now? Everything’s all 


And Both Were Young 65 

right now, don’t you see?” For he had been terribly 
moved by his parents’ drawn faces, their forgiving 
attitude. Lora’s outburst in the face of such mag¬ 
nanimity appeared as childish, and unreasonable to 
him as to their elders. 

And of course it was childish. Even Lora herself 
could see that, and utterly unreasonable. Now that 
there was no longer any excuse for secrecy, now that 
they had gained their end. And this sort of thing al¬ 
ways looked so badly for of course it never could 
really be kept secret. It was Julia who touched on 
this aspect of the affair, “—and the world always 
imputes the worst motive to a runaway marriage, 
Lora—and of course it reflects on the parents. They 
are the ones who are blamed,” and she managed to 
catch Mr. Hedd’s eyes as she said it. “I don’t think 
you and Judd have thought of that, have you?” 

And so, very simply and politely, with no raised 
voices save for that one hysterical outburst from Lora, 
and with the full consent of their parents, the elopers 
found themselves a betrothed couple instead of man 
and wife. 

It was the minister who used the quaint and flowery 
word, congratulating them on their “betrothal.” 
He went and stood between them with his arms 
around their shoulders. He said, his old voice boom¬ 
ing genially, “I congratulate you, even though I do 
lose by it—I presume you intended to pay me for the 


66 And Both Were Young 

job, young man?” And, when Judd looked at him 
uncertainly, he laughed and hugged the tall boy’s 
shoulders. “Just my little joke! And now, I sup¬ 
pose, you’ll have one of those elegant weddings in 
one of those stylish New York churches with a 
proper bishop in vestments and all the grand trim¬ 
mings— Well, I’ll try not to be jealous—but you’ll 
come to see me one day, won’t you?” 

All this time he was leading them down the aisle, 
the others following, and presently they were all out¬ 
side in the sunshine again. For a moment the bright 
glare after the shady church, blinded Lora. She 
stood blinking, her head lowered. When she heard 
someone shout her name and Judd’s, heard Judd 
shout back, she looked up and her mother said, 
“That was Cliff Sidney and little Hannah Vines— 
who was the man in the rumble seat, I wonder?” 

Judd said, “Looked like Earle Gracie,” and they 
all stared earnestly after the disappearing car as 
though nothing extraordinary had happened. 

It came about naturally enough that Lora should 
drive home in her father’s car while Mr. and Mrs. 
Harcott went in Judd’s roadster. Lora found her¬ 
self seated between her parents on the front seat. 
She wasn’t sure whether she had said good-by to Judd, 
wasn’t very sure of anything save the pressure of her 
mother’s and father’s bodies on either side of her. 
The whole back seat was empty and here she was 


And Both Were Young 67 

crowded in the front with her parents, like a little 
girl. And suddenly she felt like a little girl, very 
small and immensely guilty. She wouldn’t, she 
thought, have felt quite so guilty if they had re¬ 
proached her. 

"That old minister,” Julia said across Lora to her 
husband, "is really a sweet thing. He talks like an 
old-fashioned book.” 

"Maybe that’s why I liked him,” George said. "I 
always did like old-fashioned books—” 

Lora went straight up to her room when they 
reached home. Her mother and father appeared not 
to notice; they were talking about Hay’s mackerel. 
"I’m afraid they’re too small to cook, after all.” 

Lora hurried upstairs, closed her door and leaned 
against it, her eyes closed, her upper lip caught hard 
between her teeth. Then she opened her eyes and 
saw herself in the mirror opposite the door. Her 
white dress was still fresh and the blue ribbon still 
circled her bright head. The new white bag still 
hung from her fingers. She thought, going across to 
her bureau, "I forgot something borrowed,” with 
a little stab of alarm. And then she realized that it 
didn’t matter. 

She stood at the window and looked at the sea. 
Familiar, late-afternoon sounds drifted up to her— 
cars going home from the club, tennis players stroll¬ 
ing past holding heated post-mortems over the last 


68 And Both Were Young 

set, the hiss of a spraying hose on the lawn next door. 
Sounds light-hearted enough but they fell with 
strange discordance on Lora’s ears. She remembered 
thinking, before she had gone to meet Judd, that 
when she came back to all this again she would be a 
bride. Now she thought, with a quizzical twist of 
lips, that she had come back a widow who had never 
been a wife. She sat down suddenly on her bed, her 
hand fisted hard against her mouth, but a knock on 
the door brought her to her feet. 

“Come in!” 

Hay came in slowly. He was clean, he had just 
washed up for dinner and his freckles stood out 
triumphantly against his scrubbed, sunburned skin. 
He had soaked and brushed his hair with such good 
effect that only a couple of unruly spikes had broken 
loose from the sodden mass—and his day’s catch 
dangled from a string in his outstretched hand. 

He said, “H’lo—look!” 

Lora sat down on the bed again. “Hello—oh, 
grand. What are they?” 

“Mackerel. Four—see?” 

Lora looked at the mackerel. They had been out 
of the water for some time now, a fact rather strongly 
apparent in the small room. “Lovely!” 

“They’re not very big—but they’re legal. I mean, 
you throw ’em back when they’re really little He 
eyed them anxiously then he said, “Mom thinks 


And Both Were Young 69 

they’re too small to cook but, if you like, I’ll cook a 
couple of ’em for you.” 

Lora managed to smile her gratitude. “No, thanks, 
darling. I— I’m not very hungry.” 

“You couldn’t eat just one?” 

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not, dear.” 

He started for the door, suddenly he turned back. 
His face was fiery red, his voice harsh and angry. He 
burst out, “Listen—it’s all my fault. I—I couldn’t 
keep my mouth shut—I had to go and spill it! I 
didn’t mean to—I dunno what made me do it—” 

“Oh!” Lora cried. “Oh! So—it was you!” 

“Yeah, it was me!” he snarled. “I couldn’t keep 
my darn mouth shut!” 

“But that’s all right, darling!” Lora said and 
smiled on him brightly. “You mustn’t feel badly. 
It’s really fine that you did tell because everything’s 
all right now. I mean, they believe us now so 
everything’s fine! We’re engaged—” 

“Y’are!” In his relief he almost shrieked it. 
“You’n Judd! Say! That’s swell!” 

“Isn’t it?” 

“You’re going to marry him anyway! Say, that’s 
swell! He’ll be my brother-in-law, then. Say! Judd’s 
a prince, all right. An’ listen, you know he bought 
half an interest in Cliff’s Reckless and maybe he’ll 
take me for a cruise sometime. Do you think maybe 
he will?” 


70 And Both Were Young 

“Yes, m-maybe he—m-maybe he will.” 

“Say—” He stopped, appalled. Lora had gone 
limp, doubled forward like a dropped marionette. 
Her body shook and the sound of her sobs was terrible 
to hear. Hay looked at her fearfully, shifting his feet. 
He looked at the door. Then he laid his mackerel on 
a chair and shuffled across to her. “Aw, listen, don’t 
do that, sis!” He sat down beside her and laid his 
bony arm across her shoulders and patted her awk¬ 
wardly. It was a thing he had never done before and 
he felt pretty foolish doing it now but there was, 
luckily, no one around to see. “Listen, you better 
quit. You’ll be sick if you don’t. Listen, whatcha 
crying for anyway? Everything’s okay now, isn’t it?” 

And, after a little, Lora said with her face still sunk 
in her soaked handkerchief, “Y-yes. Everything’s 
—okay—now.” 

Judd’ s sense of guilt spread and deepened until it 
was all but intolerable. Neither on the drive home 
nor at dinner had his parents referred to his crime. 
But his mother looked white and worn, his father’s 
determined nonchalance was nearly as trying. After 
dinner Mrs. Harcott went out on the porch and lay 
down in the swing. Bailey made straight for the liv¬ 
ing room and his evening paper. 

Judd wandered restlessly over the house, picked up 
a magazine and laid it down, turned the radio on and 


And Both Were Young 71 

off, lit a cigarette and threw it in the empty fire¬ 
place. He knew he should be grateful for this 
silence, this polite pretense that nothing unusual 
had occurred. Instead he found it terribly oppres¬ 
sive. Not that he wanted a rumpus, but, now that 
he could think back over that scene in the church, 
it seemed to him that so much had been left unsaid. 
Things had happened so swiftly. Everything had 
been settled—nothing had been settled. He had been 
given no opportunity to justify himself and there 
was this great gap between him and his parents. 
His heart was full to bursting. He would have given 
much for a small boy’s privilege to spill its over¬ 
charged burden on his mother’s breast. He thrust 
his hands into his pockets and went out on the 
porch. 

“Throw that little afghan over my feet, will you, 
dear?” 

Judd covered his mother’s feet with the afghan. 
She thanked him faintly and he said, speaking 
quickly and very casually, “I think I’ll run over 
to see Lora for a few minutes.” 

She said gently, “Very well, dear.” And then, 
before he could move, “Judd, do you think if we 
started tomorrow, you could drive me home and 
get back to college in time?” 

He looked down at her, astounded. “Tomorrow! 

Drive you—” 


72 And Both Were Young 

“We’ve got to get the car back to Cleveland some¬ 
how and it would really be more convenient if the 
servants went by train. If they leave the day after 
we do, they’ll still get there before we can—in time 
to open the house. Your father can drive your car 
as far as Haver ton and come on from there by 
rail.” 

Judd said, “But why the rush? I thought you 
weren’t leaving until next week and anyway you’d 
hate a trip like that. You know how these long treks 
bore you.” 

“I know, dear. But I think I would enjoy this— 
with you.” Her voice sounded exhausted. “And 
I want to get away—I feel I must get home. We 
could take it slowly—I feel it might rest me. I seem 
to be pretty tired.” 

He winced at that, felt the heat in his cheeks. 
But his thoughts flew to Lora. “Wouldn’t it look a 
little funny to the Parises?” 

“Funny! In what way, darling?” 

“Well—I mean, there’ll be things to attend to— 
announcements to send out. They’ll want to an¬ 
nounce our engagement, I suppose, have a party 
probably—” 

“I’m sorry, Judd, but I’m afraid I’m not equal to 
a party just now. I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone 
that. They can announce the engagement without 
our being here—they probably won’t bother to 


And Both Were Young 73 

make an official announcement anyway, until they 
get back to New York.” 

Judd walked to the edge of the porch, stood 
looking out at the pattern of leaves and moonlight 
on the lawn. He felt confused and angry and disap¬ 
pointed but he had no right to complain. No right 
to haggle over unimportant details. He should be 
glad to be let off so easily. 

He said as calmly as he could, “I was going to 
run down to Providence in the morning and get the 
ring.” 

“The— Oh, yes. But in that case we couldn’t get 
started until after lunch! It would be lots better 
to leave early. You could get the ring in Cleveland 
and send it to Lora, couldn’t you? I’m sure she’d 
understand if you explained—” she broke off and 
sighed deeply.” “I’m really too tired to discuss it 
any more tonight, Judd.” 

She was taking it for granted that he would agree 
—which was natural, of course. He glanced un¬ 
easily at her through the thickening dusk. She was 
lying very still, he thought her eyes were closed. 
“Well, guess I’d better be stepping,” he said and 
tiptoed down the porch steps. 

Marie heard him go and her languor vanished. 
She threw off the afghan, sprang up and hurried into 
the living room. “He’s gone,” she said. “He’s gone 
over there!” 


74 And Both Were Young 

Bailey lowered his paper. “What?” 

“Judd. He’s gone over to the Parises.” 

“Well, I suppose that’s natural.” 

His wife’s hands fisted at her sides. “I can’t bear 
it!” 

“Now, now, you won’t have to bear it much 
longer. How’d he take to the idea of leaving to¬ 
morrow?” 

“Oh, he’s coming—he doesn’t want to, of course.” 
She gave a short, harsh laugh. “He wanted to stay 
—to celebrate the engagement—have a party!” 

“Well, but if he’s agreed to go to the party—sit 
down, dear—” 

“There’s the bell! Who can that be? I cant see 
anyone tonight. I can’t—” 

The maid said from the doorway, “Mrs. Paris 
would like to see you. She says—” 

But before she could say more, Julia was there 
behind her to speak for herself. “I’m sorry to dis¬ 
turb you like this but something rather important 
has happened—” 

The maid retired and Marie hurriedly crossed 
the room and closed the door. Bailey Harcott stood 
up, made a half-gallant half-embarrassed gesture 
toward a chair. “Won’t you sit down?” 

“Thank you. I won’t keep you a minute.” She 
dropped down on the edge of a straight chair. She 
wore a white flannel coat over her light dress, her 


And Both Were Young 75 

hands were thrust deep in its pockets, she had evi¬ 
dently been running for she was breathless. “I 
shouldn’t have bothered you but something—has 
Mrs. Welles called you up?” 

Marie was still standing over near the door, her 
big figure rigid, her mouth tight. “I don’t know any 
Mrs. Welles.” 

“She’s the local correspondent for the New York 
papers. She called up the house a few minutes ago 
—about Lora and Judd—wanted to know if there was 
any truth in the story that they’d eloped. I can’t 
imagine how she heard—unless it was Hannah or 
Earle—I don’t believe Cliff would talk. But Hannah 
might and Earle—especially Earle—you remember 
they saw us coming out of the church this afternoon 
—they probably put two and two together—” 

“Well, suppose they did? You told this Mrs.— 
whatever her name is—that there was no truth in 
the story, didn’t you?” 

Something of Julia’s distrait air left her at the 
sound of Marie’s clipped cold voice. “Yes, of course,” 
she said. “Of course I told her there was nothing in 
it. Then I began to think how awful—once these 
rumors start you know how rapidly they spread. 
I began to think how terrible it would be for Judd 
and Lora if the truth got out. I mean if it leaked 
out that they had got a marriage license and that 
we’d stopped the wedding—” 


76 And Both Were Young 

“It won’t,” Marie Harcott said. “I don’t see how 
it can—and what if it does? I guess we can survive 
a little village gossip—” 

“I’m not thinking of us, but of them—of Judd and 
Lora. You know how young people are—how cruel. 
If their friends find out the truth, they’ll make our 
children’s lives miserable.” 

“They won’t find out from me. You needn’t worry 
about that!” 

Julia read the sneering implication in that per¬ 
fectly, but she said, without changing her voice, 
“I’m not. But I think we ought to prevent their find¬ 
ing it out at all, if we can and I think we can if you’re 
willing to—to pretend a little.” 

“Pretend?” 

“My husband and I decided tonight that Lora 
should go back to New York with him tomorrow. 
The sooner they’re separated, the sooner they’ll for¬ 
get each other, of course. But I think if we could 
postpone that a day or two and put on a little act first, 
we could stop this gossip—kind of, well, save their 
pride.” 

“I don’t know what you mean by putting on an 
act,” Marie said. “Judd and I are leaving tomor¬ 
row. I quite agree that the sooner they’re sepa¬ 
rated—” 

“But, don’t you see that isn’t going to stop the 
gossip? Everyone knows we opposed their going to- 


And Both Were Young 77 

gether—Mrs. Welles mentioned that over the phone 
—and that makes the story just that much more 
credible. But, if we denied it—not with words but 
by appearing to be friendly—” She stopped, drew her 
hands out of her pockets, lifted them in a little shy, 
beseeching gesture. “We should be able to do that 
—for one evening don’t you think? You see, I thought 
I might give a little party at the club—announce the 
engagement. By doing that we would take all the 
mystery out of the affair. People couldn't say we’d 
stopped the marriage if we did that.” 

“There’s something in that, mother,” Bailey Har- 
cott said. He had kept his eyes on Julia Paris’s face 
as she talked, an attentive frown between his grizzly 
brows. “I can see Mrs. Paris’s point. It’ll be pretty 
hard on Judd if this thing leaks out. His friends’ll 
kid the life out of him. It might be a darn good idea 
to throw a little party, publicly announce the engage¬ 
ment—” 

“Nonsense!” his wife said. “You’re exaggerating 
this thing out of all proportion and I’m hardly in 
the mood to give a party—” 

“Neither am I,” Julia said and stood up. Her face 
was crimson, her eyes blazing. “But I’d be willing to 
make the effort for the children’s sakes. I’m as eager 
to have this affair broken off as you are but I don’t 
want to break their hearts and their lives and that’s 
what we’re going to do if we don’t go a little more 


78 And Both Were Young 

slowly and carefully. We’ve got to think of their 
future—” 

“That is what I am doing,” Marie Harcott said, 
breathing hard with her effort to remain calm. “That 
is why I’m taking Judd away with me in the morn¬ 
ing!” She turned her back on Julia and ostentatiously 
opened the door. “I must ask you to excuse me. I’ve 
a great many things to atend to.” 

Julia’s crimson cheeks went white. She crossed 
the room swiftly. At the door she lifted her blazing 
eyes to Marie Harcott’s face. “Very well. And if 
my daughter ever lays eyes on your son after tonight, 
it will not be my fault. You may be quite sure of 
that!” 

She hurried out and Marie closed the door and 
leaned against it. Her husband said, “I’m inclined to 
think you were wrong there, mother—” 

“Oh, you are! You think I was wrong, do you? Do 
you know why? Because you’re blind! Don’t you 
see why she came here? Can’t you realize what she’s 
trying to do with all that noble talk? She was simply 
trying to cement this business—make it almost im¬ 
possible for Judd to withdraw! Well, thank heaven 
/ saw through her!” 

Once he was away from the house, Judd’s steps 
quickened, presently he was running. Even so, his 
thoughts were ahead of him, already reaching out 
for Lora. He had never wanted her quite like this. 


And Both Were Young 79 

never needed her so badly, her trusting hand in his, 
her eyes restoring him to his normal stature. A full 
east wind was blowing in from the sea and Judd ran 
with his head lowered so that he did not see Cliff 
until he was almost upon him. 

Cliff shouted, “Hey, what’s the rush?” 

Judd slowed up long enough to say, “Hi, fella! 
Be seeing you—” and would have gone on but Cliff 
grabbed his arm. 

“Just a minute, wait a minute! What’s all this 
about you and Lora?” 

Judd stopped then, peered at Cliff’s lean, dark face, 
“What do you mean ‘all this’?” 

“Why, the party at the church? Judd, is it true 
you two are married?” 

Judd let out a loud laugh. “Heavens, no! 
Where’d you hear that stuff? But I’ll tell you a secret 
—not that it’ll be a secret long—we are engaged.” 

Cliff said, “You are! But what—listen, I never 
heard of a couple having to go to church to get en- 
gaged.” 

“No?” But Judd’s heart sank. “Lots of things 
you’ve never heard of, mister.” 

“Yes,” Cliff said dryly. “In which case I draw 
my own conclusions.” 

Judd’s voice rasped angrily. “Well, you’re draw¬ 
ing ’em wrong this time. Lora and I are not mar¬ 
ried.” 

“Then what were you—and all the papas and 


8 o And Both Were Young 

mammas and the parson—doing at the church this 
afternoon?” 

“What business is it of yours what we were doing?” 

Cliff made him an ironic bow. “None. My mis¬ 
take!” and started away. 

But Cliff was his best friend. Judd reached out 
and hauled him back. “I’m sorry, Cliff—I—I’m kind 
of jittery tonight. As a matter of fact, we—we did 
think we might get married—then we changed our 
minds, decided to wait a year, but—well, naturally 
we don’t want that broadcast.” 

Cliff said nothing for a moment, the two stood 
there in the windy darkness, facing each other, awk¬ 
ward and constrained. Then Cliff said, “That’s 
kind of too bad. Hannah saw the—er—party, too. 
And Earle. I suppose I can fix it with Earle all 
right, but you know gals.” 

“Tell ’em we’re engaged. That’ll leave ’em some¬ 
thing to chew on.” 

“Okay. But what about the church? That looks 
kind of suspicious, you know.” 

Judd gnawed his lip. “Tell ’em we were taking the 
old folks sightseeing—historic New England church 
—that sort of thing.” 

“Okay,” Cliff said again. “By the way, congratula¬ 
tions.” 

“Thanks!” 

Judd hurried off. He could feel the moisture ooz- 


And Both Were Young 81 

ing from his palms and his cheeks were on fire. 
Well, thank God it had been too dark for Cliff to see 
that. But he had seen enough—he and Earle and 
Hannah. He didn’t mind Earle so much, never had 
liked him, didn’t care what he thought. But Han¬ 
nah was different, a nice girl. Even nice girls, how¬ 
ever, were gossips. If she didn’t believe Cliff’s story, 
the news of their ‘‘elopement” would be all over town 
by morning. That wouldn’t be so bad if they’d 
really pulled it off. He realized suddenly how much 
worse the truth was going to sound. An elopement 
that actually came off had at least the dignity of 
melodrama. But this was just farce. This would 
make them laugh their heads off. And Lora would 
have to be around and hear them doing it while he 
would be on his way to Cleveland. They would say 
he’d run away—that was the way it would look. 

He came blindly up against the low picket gate 
before the Paris cottage. Now that he was there, 
his courage all but failed him. For it came to him 
suddenly that he must face Lora’s father and mother 
and the thought filled him with abject fear. 

It took more than the physical effort for him to 
lift the latch of the gate. But he was only halfway 
up the walk, when George’s voice hailed him from 
the porch. “That you, Judd? Come along in!’’ 

Judd said, “Evening, sir!” and mounted the steps. 
“Is—is Lora around?” 


82 And Both Were Young 

“Yes, she’s inside somewhere.” His voice was 
neither friendly nor unfriendly. “I’ll see if I can 
find her.” 

He got up and went in. Judd heard him climbing 
the stairs, calling, “Lora, oh, Lora, Judd’s here!” 
And Judd took out his handkerchief and mopped his 
face. 

Lora had taken off the white dress. She was wear¬ 
ing something soft and flowery, her throat and arms 
were bare. Judd got to his feet when she came out 
and said, “H’lo, darling!” They had the right now 
to greet each other as an engaged couple, but they 
stopped a foot apart, saying nothing until Lora 
shivered and said, “It’s getting cold, isn’t it?” 

“Can I get something to put around you?” 

“Oh, no. I’m not that cold.” 

He reached out suddenly and took her in his arms. 
She was all he remembered, slim and soft and warm, 
faintly fragrant. But there was a difference. Her 
hands did not lock, as they used to do, behind his 
head, her lips were passive under his. He held her 
close and thought his heart would break. “Lora, 
darling—darling! I’ve been wanting you so.” 

She moved gently out of his arms and across to 
the wide, cushioned swing. “Let’s sit down, shall 
we?” 

He went and stood beside her. “Lora! Is anything 
wrong, dear?” 


And Both Were Young 83 

“No. Nothing special—I’m just tired, I guess. 
I’ve been packing—” 

“Packing!” 

“We’re going back to New York tomorrow—dad 
and I.” 

He sat down beside her. “To New York!” His 
first thought was that now he need not tell her that 
he was leaving, too. “Tomorrow, dearheart! How 
does that happen?” 

“Dad and mother think we’d better—we were go¬ 
ing soon anyway and now—something has hap¬ 
pened—” 

“What? Not—Lora, tell me!” 

She looked down at her interlocked fingers. “Well, 
someone—that woman who writes things for the New 
York papers, you know—called mother up. She said 
she’d heard we were married—she wanted to know 
if the story was true so she could send it off to the 
papers.” 

“Oh! Is that all?” He drew her against him, held 
her close. “I was afraid—I thought it might be some¬ 
thing serious.” 

“This is serious. I mean, for mother to have to 
explain—and she couldn’t think what to say.” 

“What does it matter? What’s an old gossip of a 
newspaper hound!” Now they would both be leav¬ 
ing, the story would die of inanition. “What does 
anything matter now that everything’s all right with 


84 And Both Were Young 

us? We’re engaged—all sure and proper. Do you 
realize that, my girl?” She nodded against his 
shoulder. “And listen! I’m going to drive mother 
back to Cleveland so I’ve decided to get your ring 
there. And Lora—if I can get back east in time, I 
could run down to New York and bring it to you. 
Maybe we could have a little celebration before col¬ 
lege opens.” 

“That would be grand.” 

“Of course, it would be lots better if you could be 
along to pick it out, darling—the ring, I mean. But 
you know what I’m going to do? I’m going into 
Freeman’s—he’s the best jeweler in Cleveland—and 
tell ’em I want the swellest engagement ring in the 
place for the swellest girl in the world!” 

“That’ll cost you money.” 

“Pooh! What’s money!” 

But it was no use. They reminded Judd of his old 
roadster on a long hill. You gave it everything you 
had but even at that it barely made the grade. 

The wind came rioting up from the sea, whipping 
the trees into cowering shapes, flapping the awnings 
at the windows, warning the Harbor that it would 
soon be in possession here. Lora rested, lax and bone¬ 
less as a sawdust doll in Judd’s arms, and as im¬ 
passive. And Judd held her without passion. They 
were both wrung dry of emotion. 

Lora lifted her head. “I’d better go in, Judd, and 


And Both Were Young 85 

help. There’s so much to do and Dad says he wants 
to get an early start.” 

Judd bent his head and looked into her face. The 
light from the window showed her to him clearly 
for the first time that night: very pale, eyes sunk 
deep in purple hollows, the soft mouth drooping, 
the dazed, blank look of a lost child. 

Judd said, “Darling, you’re not—you’re all right, 
aren’t you? You still love me, Lora?” 

“Of course. Only all this—” she stopped and lifted 
her hands and dropped them with a little laugh. 

“I know—it’s been pretty awful but it really is 
better this way isn’t it?” She nodded slowly and he 
said, “If we’d gone through with it, we’d probably 
have regretted it all our lives.” She was silent and 
he urged her, “Wouldn’t we?” 

She looked away from him, at the trees writhing 
under the lash of the wind. “I don’t know. We never 
will know—now. Will we?” 

Julia Paris came swiftly through the gate and up 
the porch steps. She said, “Hello, are you two out 
here in the cold? May I sit down?” Judd stood up, 
faced her nervously. Julia’s voice, however, was 
impersonal and friendly. “I’ve just been chatting 
with your mother, Judd.” She sat down in a rocker, 
Judd took his place beside Lora again, felt for her 
hand. Julia said, “We’ve been talking things over. 
I had to explain why we couldn’t wait to celebrate 


86 And Both Were Young 

your engagement. I suppose you’ve told Judd you’re 
leaving tomorrow, Lora?” 

Neither Judd nor Lora spoke and Julia cleared 
her throat. “I’m sure you both realize how we feel 
about this—what happened today. But we were at 
fault, too, and now—well, we don’t want to make any 
more mistakes. We want to be fair. But we want you 
to co-operate with us.” 

Lora’s fingers went taut in Judd’s. “You—you 
said we could be engaged, Mother!” 

“Yes. Of course. But marriage is a more serious 
matter. I’m afraid neither of you realize how serious 
or you wouldn’t have—but that’s all over. Judd, what 
I’m trying to say is that both your mother and I think 
you and Lora would be in a better position to know 
your true feelings if you didn’t see each other for a 
while. Say until after the Christmas holidays, any¬ 
way—” 

“That isn’t long, of course, and it will give you a 
truer perspective—give you a chance to see things 
more clearly. And then, too, this last year in college 
is going to be a hard one for you. Lora must realize 
that. You’ll have very little time—” 

“Plenty of men are engaged their senior year and 
manage to see their girls, Mrs. Paris,” Judd said. 

“Your case is a little different.” Her voice rose 
and sharpened. “If your affection isn’t strong enough 
to bear a few months’ separation how can you expect 


And Both Were Young 87 

it to endure for the rest of your lives?” She waited 
a moment and then added more quietly, “In the cir¬ 
cumstances, I don’t think it’s too much to ask of 
you.” 

They both heard the reproach in that, recognized 
the challenge. Judd said, “I’m agreeable to that, if 
Lora is!” His voice was full and strong. “We don’t 
have to be separated to know our true feelings for 
each other, but if it’ll prove anything to you, I guess 
we can stand it—can’t we, darling?” 

“Yes, I—I guess we can stand it all right,” Lora 
said. 


afoier 6 


WHE ERA OF THE EMPEROR HADRIAN,” SAID PRO- 

fessor Shore in his deep, rich voice, “was one of tran¬ 
quillity and prosperity; it was also an era of luxury 
such as we so-called moderns have never known—” 

Outside the classroom windows, the campus was 
turning gold and crimson. The late October day 
was warm as July, the windows were open to the chirp 
of birds and the spicy smell of burning leaves. An 
occasional bee blundered inside, and, maddened per¬ 
haps by the atmosphere of learning, almost battered 
itself to a pulp in an effort to get out again. Plump 
little Lois Amot, who had eaten her own and Lora’s 
dessert at lunch, held her eyelids open with two fat 
forefingers and stared with tipsy intensity at Profes¬ 
sor Shore. Joan Hudson was composing a limerick 
with that expression of grave absorption which had 
moved the Professor to pronounce her the most at¬ 
tentive student in his class. 

“The Roman of the Second Century of the Chris¬ 
tian Era, possessed all those so-called modern con¬ 
veniences which we, in our ignorance, believe to be 
exclusively indigenous to our own day—” 


88 


And Both Were Young 89 

Still gravely attentive, Joan finished her limerick, 
palmed it expertly and dropped it in Lora’s lap. 

“There was an old gent so pedantic, 

He drove his poor class simply frantic, 

So they took him one day 
For a sail down the bay, 

And dropped him into the Atlantic.” 

Lora flashed her approval to Joan and passed the 
limerick on to Martha Franks. Martha read it 
sternly and slipped it to Clara Revere. Lora drew 
a wire-haired terrier on her notebook and automati¬ 
cally absorbed the surprising information that the 
Romans of the Second Century had had running 
water in their bedrooms. Not that Lora found it 
surprising. It just wasn’t important. In a long talk 
with her a couple of days before, the Dean had told 
her earnestly, “The price of inattention is failure.” 

Lora knew that this was so. She tried to be at¬ 
tentive; she had been an honor student last year. 
But a year ago she had been interested in learning 
things. If she got back a paper with a bare “Passing” 
on it, she stormed and boned and was rewarded by 
a red “Excellent” on the next. Her marks had been 
of vital importance to her. This year she barely 
glanced at her returned class papers and she some¬ 
times thought with a pang, half bitter, half tender, 
of the naive girl she had been a year ago. 


90 And Both Were Young 

She swallowed a yawn, now, and looked lazily at 
her ring. The sun drew all the colors of the rain¬ 
bow from the small, square diamond. It was small, 
but it was perfect. Perfect as the girl who was to 
wear it, Judd had written gallantly when he had 
sent it to her. That was the day after her engage¬ 
ment had been announced, “Mr. and Mrs. George 
Paris announce the engagement of their daughter, 
Lora, to Mr. Judd Harcott, son of Mr. and Mrs. 
Bailey Harcott of Cleveland. No date has been set 
for the wedding—” 

So everything had been set right, set in the correct 
and orderly channel. Her friends had been thrilled, 
Lora knew she should be thrilled, too. As Judd had 
gaily pointed out in his letter, it was a real victory 
for them—Love Triumphant. But victory won at 
the point of a gun has its disadvantages. Lora could 
never look at her parents these days without being 
reminded of that dreadful afternoon in the little 
country church. She had looked eagerly forward to 
the day when she must return to college, welcomed 
it when it came. 

But college was not much better. True, the girls 
who hugged and congratulated her and exclaimed 
over her ring, did not know the story that lay behind 
it. That had been a comfort—but it was her sole 
comfort. For she found that the life she had so dearly 
loved last year, the life of chapel and classes and 


And Both Were Young 91 

noisy dormitory meals; of twilight walks and shared 
secrets and midnight feasts and soda fountain ro¬ 
mances—was no longer for her. She had a strange, 
sad sense of having passed through something that 
set her apart, of having known emotions that made 
her ineligible for the innocent, light-hearted cam¬ 
pus life. One short summer afternoon had made all 
that difference. 

Her classmates felt something of this. They said, 
“What’s come over Lora Paris!” Some of them said, 
“She’s just gone snooty because she’s engaged—” not 
really believing it. No one could know Lora Paris 
and call her snooty. Their eyes would follow her 
furtively as she went across the campus, her hair 
shining gold under the gilded trees, her bare legs 
as golden where they showed between her woolen 
anklets and tweed skirt. She looked the same, and 
yet she was changed. There was that faraway, wait¬ 
ing look in her eyes and she acted so—well, grown up; 
never wanted to have any fun—just sat around and 
read or wandered off by herself— 

When they left Professor Shore’s class, Lora and 
Joan and Lois walked back together to the dormitory 
where all three lived. Joan asked Lora, “How’d you 
like my limerick?” 

“It was grand,” Lora said. 

Lois sighed and felt around in her pocket for a 
caramel. “I don’t see how you think of ’em, Jo. You 


92 And Both Were Young 

must have genius or something—want a caramel?” 

“No, and neither do you,” Joan said and snatched 
the candy. “If you keep on like this, you’ll be roll¬ 
ing instead of walking by the time you’re thirty!” 

Lois fished around for another caramel but be¬ 
fore she could get the paper off, a girl planted herself 
before them. She was a small, sharp-faced girl with 
very bright black eyes and she was looking at Lora. 

She said, “You’re Lora Paris, aren’t you?” Lora 
said she was and the sharp-eyed girl said, “Isn’t that 
funny? I know you just from Hannah’s description. 
Hannah Vines, you know? I had a letter from her this 
morning and she told me you were here and said 
to look you up.” She arched her plucked brows. 
“I was kind of scared to. I was afraid you wouldn’t 
want to be bothered with a dinkie little freshie.” 

The words were humble enough but there was 
nothing humble about Elsie Hammond, which, it ap¬ 
peared, was her name. Elsie talked in a high, sharp 
voice and there was something incredibly quick and 
sharp in her bright, black eyes, too. She reminded 
Lora of an alert little hen. But Lora had been a 
freshman herself and remembered how grateful she 
had been for a kind word from an upper classman. 
So she introduced her to Joan who told her she was 
glad to see her and to Lois who promptly gave her 
a caramel and gobbled one herself. 

When they had managed to shake her, Joan said 


And Both IVere Young' 93 

in her dry, boyish way, “Well, little Elsie’ll get along 
fine if she doesn’t fall down and cut herself on all 
that edge one of these days.” 

Lora smiled. “She’s just got the freshman jit¬ 
ters.” 

“Too bad she had to be wished on you. Who’s 
this friend Hannah.” 

“Hannah Vines. She’s sweet. She comes up to 
Forks Harbor in the summer,” Lora said and 
promptly forgot Elsie and Joan and Lois and the 
campus. Just the mention of the Harbor brought 
it all back so vividly, the beach and the sea, the 
Reckless rocking lazily at her buoy and Cliff and 
Judd swinging along the sand—“She’s young, but 
the little thing has possibilities,” Cliff had informed 
Judd that day. Her throat ached with remember¬ 
ing. 

But the weekends were the hardest. Weekends 
the campus was all but deserted. Virtually every 
other engaged girl in college was enjoying a ro¬ 
mantic interlude with her man just as every un¬ 
engaged girl with the smallest pretense to charm 
had a prospect of some sort in tow. All Lora had 
were Judd’s letters. She had one with her the Friday 
night after Elsie’s advent. She walked out to her 
favorite meadow and sat down under her favorite 
tree to watch the moon rise and think of Judd. The 
moon was so clear and bright that she could almost 


94 And Both Were Young 

read the letter by its light. She had already read it 
a dozen times, knew parts of it by heart: 

“—the longest weeks I’ve ever lived through. I don’t 
see how I’m going to stand it, darling. I suppose it’s 
good for my character, though. If it would net me 
an extra credit or two I wouldn’t mind so much—I’ll 
be needing all I can get at this rate—just can’t seem to 
rouse the old brain—’’ 

Judd was finding it hard, too, this dreary pursuit 
of knowledge. Her lips curved in a tender little grin 
at the thought. 

“—darling, darling, if I could see you, even for five min¬ 
utes. But I expect we can’t be too greedy. Now that 
we’ve pulled off our grand coup we’ll have to show ’em 
we deserve it—” 

They mustn’t be too greedy. They must remem¬ 
ber that that “grand coup” of theirs was really a 
coup de main . They could hardly expect to enjoy 
the rights and privileges of a normally, peacefully, 
engaged pair. Still, it was hard sometimes—this 
waiting—this waiting for life to begin. 

When she went back to the dormitory, it was late. 
Her soft-soled shoes made no sound on the tiled floor 
of the corridor. She was glad for many of the room 
doors were open. If anyone saw her they would 
want to know where she had been, what she’d been 
doing. She would have to hear all about someone’s 


And Both Were Young 95 

latest conquest, someone else was sure to mention 
Judd, ask why he never came to see her. They’d 
begun to make jokes about him; pretend to think 
there was no such person or that she was ashamed 
of him—that he was wall-eyed or lisped. Most of 
them had seen Judd’s picture on her desk which 
made this a little easier to bear but it irked her 
all the same. 

She reached her room safely tonight. As she went 
in, she saw that Joan’s door was ajar. Joan had the 
room next to Lora’s and she was evidently enter¬ 
taining guests tonight for Lora could hear Lois 
Amot’s voice—muffled, as usual, with candy—and 
another that she recognized after a moment as Elsie 
Hammond’s. She couldn’t help smiling as she 
thought of Lois and Joan trying to be polite to the 
“dinkie little freshie.” She felt a little guilty, knew 
she ought to go in and take Elsie off their hands. 
But that was the last thing she wanted to do, and, 
while she hesitated there with her finger on her light 
switch, she heard the sharp, piping treble say, “But 
it is true. Hannah Vines saw them coming out of 
the church. She found out afterwards that they 
even had the license. If their families had got there 
five minutes later, it would have been too late.” 

Lora’s hand dropped from the switch, she stood 
in the dark and heard Joan’s scornful voice, “Well, 
suppose it is true. What of it?” 


g 6 And Both Were Young 

“Why that's how they happen to be engaged. 
They never would have been if it hadn’t been for 
that. Hannah says everybody up there knew his 
parents were opposed to it.” 

“Why should they be opposed to it?” 

“Because they don’t think she’s good enough for 
Judd. They never had any intention of letting him 
marry her. Her parents know that and they’re just 
as much against it as the Harcotts. Don’t you see 
it was just a trick to get ’em apart?” 

Lois, whose mental processes, like her fat little 
legs, could never quite keep in step, said suddenly, 
“But how silly! I mean, if they’d gone to all the 
trouble of getting the license and everything—I mean, 
it looks so silly!” 

“Well, it’s one way of getting your man,” Elsie 
said, “if you can’t get him any other way. Only she 
didn’t get him and she never will. He hasn’t been 
near her all this autumn, has he? And he hasn’t had 
her up to Haverton. He won’t, either. Hannah says 
his mother’s taken an apartment in New York and 
Judd’s there every weekend and she keeps the place 
simply swarming with girls—” 

Lora softly closed her door. She groped her way 
through the dark to her bed and sat down, shaking 
and terribly nauseated. She pressed her hands hard 
against her ears to shut out the sound of Elsie’s voice, 
but she seemed only to be shutting herself in with 


And Both Were Young 97 

that shrill, triumphant piping. “They never would 
have been engaged—it’s one way of getting your 
man.” Only she hadn’t got him, as Elsie had pointed 
out. “They never had any intention of letting him 
marry her—” 

Tricked. But, of course, she had known they were 
being tricked. Something in her had warned her 
that day. That was why she had screamed out there 
in the church. That was why she would have defied 
them all and married Judd even then. She hadn’t 
been afraid of the future! Whatever had happened, 
it couldn’t have been so mean—so inglorious and 
humiliating as this! Tomorrow it would be all over 
the campus—probably was already; she would be the 
laughingstock of the entire college. “It looks so 
awfully silly—” 

Silly! They had bought her off with false prom¬ 
ises and a pretty little diamond ring and she mustn’t 
forget the announcement in the paper. Only that 
had been honest. “No date has been set for the 
wedding—” No date ever would be set. She sat on 
the bed with her hands clenched now, her eyes 
blazing in the darkness. A trick! But Judd hadn’t 
seen through it because he had a gentle, trusting 
heart. Suddenly she sprang up and turned on the 
light over her desk. She looked at the clock and saw 
that it was not yet ten. The drugstore would still be 
open. But she might not be able to reach Judd by 


98 And Both Were Young 

phone. A telegram would be better, surer. She sat 
down and scribbed her message: 

“Come tomorrow. I must see you. Quite all right to 
disregard your promise. Will explain why when you 
come. If you do not wire me, will meet you in tavern 
tearoom at one tomorrow. Don’t fail me, darling.” 

At breakfast next morning, Joan and Lois were 
unnaturally silent. Lora knew what a strain this must 
be for poor Lois who had all the secretiveness of a 
month-old puppy. But Joan had evidently scared 
her into silence and Lora was so touched by the dumb 
misery of Lois’s round, pink face that she passed 
over her own scrambled eggs out of sheer pity. 

Joan said, disgusted, “There you go! She’s had 
enough—look at her! She’s bursting with food. Why 
can’t you eat your own breakfast?” 

Lora laughed. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes 
brilliant. “I’m not hungry—too excited. Judd’s 
coming today.” 

Lois choked and Joan pounded her on the back. 
“I told you she’d had enough, she’s just pushing it 
down! Judd, darling? Swell! When’s he coming? 
I want to see that man.” 

“For lunch—at least I think he is.” She had not 
meant to tell so soon. He might not come. Something 
might happen. “I’m almost certain—I’ll know for 
sure sometime this morning.” 


And Both Were Young 99 

No wire came. Judd’s daily letter, written before 
he had received her wire, of course, was full of love 
and longing. To Lora, in a fever of excitement, time 
moved with exasperating slowness. 

At noon, on her way to telephone to the tearoom 
for a table, she ran into Joan who took one look at 
her friend’s face and said, “Well, I guess that man 
of yours is coming, all right.” 

“I guess he is,” Lora said. 

“Goody! I’m all prepared. Let’s see, six and a 
half feet tall, the shoulders of a Viking, the sex appeal 
of Franchot Tone—” 

“Oh, shut up!” Joan knew perefctly well what 
Judd looked like, having seen his picture on Lora’s 
dressing table every day for six weeks. “If you 
want to meet him, you might be lunching at the 
tearoom about one, darling.” 

“Who’ll pay the check? Oh, well, I might even 
pay my own for a look at that Leslie Gable of yours.” 
And she made a mental note to see that Elsie was 
informed of Judd’s coming. “That ought to shut 
her up,” she thought. 

Half the upper classmen lunched at the Tavern 
Tea Room on Saturdays. They reserved their tables 
in advance to keep as many freshmen away as pos¬ 
sible, keep them in their place. Lora engaged a table 
near the big stone fireplace and ordered Judd’s 
favorite luncheon—kidney chops and baked potato. 


> > ' 


100 And Both Were Young 

sliced tomatoes and lemon meringue pie! A lunch 
for a king—a lunch for Hay’s prince! 

October was behaving more like its near neighbor, 
November, today. The air was clear and sharp, the 
first frost had been at work on the trees overnight; 
they were like great bouquets of gold and fire. Lora 
wore her new rust knitted dress and her tweed swag¬ 
ger coat with its flaring blue fox collar. She was 
nearly an hour dressing, brushing her hair, adjust¬ 
ing her little brown felt sports hat to the proper 
angle. 

The tearoom was crowded when she arrived. As 
many men as girls, today. Men up from Boston, New 
York, New Haven to see their own particular girl. 
Great yellow chrysanthemums bloomed against fur 
collars, the place was alive with exuberant voices 
and laughter, the clatter of dishes; logs crackled 
gaily in the deep fireplace, even the starched little 
waitresses carried their trays with smiling ease. 

Lora smiled, too, waved in this direction and that 
as she made her way toward her own table. Men 
stole quick, interested glances at the girl whose face 
looked so clear and vivid that she might have been 
moving in some invisibly operated spotlight. She 
had run her eyes over the parked cars outside in 
search of Judd’s familiar roadster not really expect¬ 
ing to see it. It was a long drive. She could not ex¬ 
pect him to be punctual. 

*> *> 
o %) 

«/t) 4 ) 




And Both Were Young ioi 

She sat down and drew off her gloves. At a small 
table over against the wall she saw Joan and Lois 
solemnly munching celery. Elsie was there, too, with 
three other freshmen and an elderly woman. Elsie 
shrilled, “Hi, Lora!” and then spoke to the elderly 
woman who glanced over in time to catch the tail 
end of Lora’s smile. 

“Shall I serve luncheon now, Miss?” 

“Not till my guest comes, please.” 

She kept her eye on the door. Tall men and short, 
dark and fair. Little girls trailing big, tanned, sheep¬ 
ish-looking men and trying not to look too trium¬ 
phant; plain girls with plain, unprepossessing men, 
trying to look as though they preferred plain, unpre¬ 
possessing men; girls with their brothers, trying to 
pretend they were some other girls’ brothers. 

The place was beginning to empty, Joan and Lois 
were dawdling over their ice cream, Lora’s face felt 
a little stiff with holding its expression of pleased 
expectancy. Then, of a sudden, it was radiant. She 
stood up and waved, and Cliff Sidney, standing just 
inside the doorway, his eyes swinging over the tables, 
saw her and waved back and went hurrying across 
to her. 

“Cliff, darling! I’m so glad to see you! But why 
didn’t you tell me you were coming along? Where’s 
Judd? Is he having an awful time finding a place 
to park? I’ll get the waitress to set another place. 


102 And Both Were Young 

Darling, if I’d known you were coming, I’d have had 
a lovely woman for you.” 

“Never mind about another place. Can I sit 
here? You see, Judd couldn’t make it, so I—” 

She sat down and Cliff sat opposite in Judd’s chair. 
She could feel the stab of eyes from a dozen different 
directions and she made her smile as wide as possible 
and her eyes big with welcome and motioned the 
waitress to start serving. 

“—I thought I’d come along and explain. I just 
blew myself to a new car and I wanted to see how 
she’d behave.” 

“That was darling of you, Cliff. I’m so glad to 
see you.” 

“I’m glad to see you, too. You’re looking swell.” 

“You don’t look so bad yourself. He’s all right, 
isn’t he? Judd, I mean? He’s not sick or—” 

“Sick! Gosh, no. He’s fine, only—well, he just 
couldn’t get away—say! If this is the way you’re 
going to feed him when you’re married, you’ll ruin 
the guy!” 

When they were married. Her heart flopped over, 
she smiled into Cliff’s eyes. Dark blue eyes set in 
his dark, lean, intelligent face. Dark straight hair 
brushed close to his head, a kind of bandbox freshness 
about him that had distinguished him from the other 
boys even when he was Hay’s age. Lora remembered 


And Both Were Young 103 

well the day Earle Grade had called him a sissy. 
Cliff had proved—using Earle’s face for demonstra¬ 
tion purposes—that because a little boy had courte¬ 
ous manners and a clean face, he was not necessarily 
a sissy. 

He returned Lora’s smile now and she leaned a 
little across the table. “Why couldn’t Judd come, 
Cliff?” 

“Huh? Oh. I guess this is the answer to that.” 
He fished a letter out of his pocket and handed it 
over. “He was afraid you wouldn’t get it today if 
he mailed it, so I offered to play postman.” 

“Thanks, darling.” 

She laid the letter beside her plate and he said, 
“Go ahead and read it if you like. I’m going to be 
pretty busy for the next few minutes.” 

But she shook her head, smiling. “It can wait— 
I’m hungry, too.” 

They ate and chatted lightly. Once Lora caught 
Joan’s puzzled eyes and grinned cheerfully across 
to her. Cliff didn’t mention Judd again. He talked 
of the Reckless, chiefly. It seemed she needed some 
new something-or-others and it was going to cost a 
whale of a lot to buy ’em. He and Judd ought to 
scrap her, he said, and buy a seaworthy tub. 

“You know you couldn’t do that!” 

He said, “It’d be a darn sight more sensible than 


104 And Both Were Young 

spending a lot of money on her—but you can’t be 
sensible about a boat, somehow.” 

Joan and Lois had gone, so had Elsie and her 
party. The tearoom was more than half empty when 
their coffee was served. Over it, Cliff said, “How 
about taking a drive in my new bus? I’d kind of like 
to see the points of interest.” 

“All the best ones have their men up for the week¬ 
end, I’m afraid,” Lora said. 

Cliff said he was referring to the flora, not the 
fauna and so they were both laughing gaily as they 
went out. Lora told him where to go and they fol¬ 
lowed a narrow road through a little wood all car¬ 
peted with golden leaves and came to an open place 
with a peaceful valley below them and gentle hills 
beyond. There Cliff parked his new car and smoked 
a cigarette while Lora read her letter. 

It was a long letter but it did not take Lora long 
to read it. When she had finished, she folded and 
replaced it in its envelope and Cliff said, gazing 
through smoke at the distant hills, “Judd thought 
there might be something special you wanted to see 
him about so I told him I’d do what I could to—kind 
of—substitute for him.” 

Lora turned the letter over and over in her fingers. 
“Thanks, Cliff. You—I guess you know what’s in 
this, don’t you?” 

“I’ve been too well brought up to read other peo- 


And Both Were Young 105 

pie’s letters,” he said. “Besides, there wasn’t a tea¬ 
kettle handy.” 

She did not smile. “I guess you know what’s in it 
all the same. You know the reason he couldn’t come 
today was because he promised he wouldn’t see me 
at all until the holidays and he doesn’t want to 
break his promise.” 

He said easily, “Well, you know how that is—at 
least you will know when you grow up to be a senior. 
Judd’s got a lot of boning to do—the last year is the 
hardest.” 

She looked straight at him. There was no one 
around now, she didn’t have to act. “You’re a 
senior, too, but you could manage to get away—” 

“Yeah—I mean, that’s the way parents look at it. 
You know how parents are. They think romance 
takes a man’s mind off his work.” 

Lora shook her head slowly. “It’s not that. They 
just don’t want him to see me again—ever. Either 
his parents or mine. They don’t mean him to if they 
can prevent it—and I guess they can.” 

“Don’t talk foolish! You’re engaged—” 

“Oh, no we’re not! Not really. I haven’t seen him 
since that day—I guess you know what day I mean 
—even my ring—it came by mail, you know.” She 
looked down at it thoughtfully, turned it this way 
and that in the sunlight. “But we’re not really en¬ 
gaged. That was just a trick. I knew it was that 


io6 And Both Were Young 

day.” She gave him a wry little smile. “I didn’t 
know the real reason why Judd’s people objected to 
me, then, but I knew they were tricking us. I guess 
Judd must know, too, by this time.” 

“Now you’re being morbid,” he said. “Now you 
—hey, what are you doing!” 

She had taken a small, square box out of her purse 
and slipped the ring off her finger. “Look,” she 
said. “I saved the box—wasn’t that thoughtful of 
me? It’ll be easier for you to carry—” 

“Lora! Don’t be a little nut! What do you—” 

“I brought it along—must have had a hunch. Will 
you give it to him for me, Cliff?” 

Cliff turned and took her hard by the shoulders. 
“Do you realize what you’re doing, Lora Paris? Do 
you realize that Judd loves you! He’s—” 

“Oh, no he doesn’t! He’d have come today if he 
had!” 

“How could he? A promise is a promise.” 

“No, it isn’t—not when it’s dragged out of you by 
a mean, dishonest trick.” 

“You’re acting like an impetuous kid, Lora. And 
remember, you almost got yourself in a bad mess 
once by—” 

“Almost got ourselves in a mess!” 

“Well, this isn’t as bad as though you’d gone 
through with it.” 

She whirled on him savagely. “How do you know 


And Both Were Young 107 

it would have been bad! How does anyone know! 
We’d have had each other at least!” She looked 
away quickly, said, low and tremulous, “And we’d 
have had something else—something we’ll never have 
again. We were sure then. We’ll never be sure again. 
It’s terrible to lose that, Cliff.” 

“Being sure about things is one of the penalties 
of being young,” he said. “You haven’t any past 
to draw on.” 

“No, only the future,” Lora said. “And no more 
sense than to try and reach out and grab it.” 

“Before it’s ripe,” Cliff said. 

She nodded and laughed a little. “Well, that’s 
all over. I’m not trying to grab the future now. I’m 
giving Judd’s back to him—all free and unencum¬ 
bered.” 

Cliff knew in his heart that this was what he had 
been hoping for all along. This affair had been a 
terrible blow to him, knocked his and Judd’s post¬ 
graduate plans into a cocked hat. He had come close 
to hating Lora for that. But now he loked at her 
and compassion pinched his heart. He looked at the 
little face that had been part of as many summers 
as he could recall. Such a sweet, merry little face 
it had been, shining-eyed and eager. Today all the 
sweetness, all the light and youth had gone. Burning 
eyes, unhealthy flares of fire in her cheeks, the young 
mouth mutinous and bitter. 


108 And Both Were Young 

Cliff heard himself saying, “I don’t think you can 
do that, darling. I doubt if you can give Judd’s 
future back to him free and unencumbered.” 

“I can try,” she said. “Do you think I’m going 
on being engaged to him like this—knowing it doesn’t 
mean anything. Being the joke of the century! It’s 
like being given a title without any of the privileges 
—and I’ve already got one title.” She laughed. “It’s 
a honey of a title. You know, I’m that Girl Who 
Almost Eloped!” 



V — y HAT SATURDAY WAS THE LONGEST DAY JUDD HAD 

ever known. His thoughts had followed Cliff every 
mile of his journey. He would think, “Now he’s at 
Middletown—” and then, “He must be near Wilma 
by this time—” and, finally, “He ought to be there 
now.” That was at one, and, after that, he tried not to 
think of either Cliff or Lora, tried to work. 

When he had telephoned his mother that he could 
not get into town this week, he had used that as an 
excuse. Said he had to stick around and work off 
some conditions. Those conditions were real enough, 
but his mother had sounded disappointed. “I’ve 
some people coming to dinner especially to meet 
you, darling. Hannah will be here, too.” He said 
he was sorry but he couldn’t possibly make it. 

That was the worst of having her in town. Oh, it 
was pleasant enough in some respects and he couldn’t 
blame her for wanting a winter in New York, want¬ 
ing a little life, wanting to see the new plays while 
they were still new—things like that. And she had 
been pretty nice, giving a little party for him nearly 
every weekend because she knew he was lonesome. 


109 


no And Both Were Young 

She couldn’t know that he didn’t always feel like 
a party, that he didn’t always feel like beauing some 
strange girl. When he had mentioned that, she had 
rounded up Hannah Vines for him. Hannah was 
pretty, too, and had the advantage of knowing Lora 
and didn’t mind hearing Judd talk about her. 

Judd had never known how much Hannah knew 
about that affair at the church. Unlike Earle Gracie, 
who had also been in Cliff’s car that day, she had 
never spoken of it. Judd thought that was pretty 
decent of her. He hoped she wouldn’t mind about 
tonight—but that was sheer egotism. Hannah had 
more men on her books than she could use up in a 
year. 

At two, Judd went out and wandered over to 
Tony’s Diner for a dish of spaghetti. He was in no 
mood for conversation and Tony’s was almost sure 
to be deserted on a Saturday. But as he came abreast 
of the famous little diner, Earle Grade’s opulent 
cream and blue roadster with Earle at the wheel 
and two other men crowded in beside him, swooped 
in to the curb. 

Earle said loudly, “Well, if it isn’t Mister Har- 
cott!” 

Judd lifted his hand in salute, said, “Hello, 
Gracie!” and kept right on going. 

But Earle was in one of his boisterously facetious 
moods. He called, “What’s your hurry, Judd—go- 


Ill 


And Both Were Young 

ing to church?” as a small boy might hurl a chal¬ 
lenging snowball at an enemy’s rear. 

Judd half stopped, the hot color rushing into his 
cheeks, then he said, “Yeah,” and hurried on. 

He knew Earle didn’t really want to fight, doubted, 
if it came to a showdown, that he would fight! He 
merely wanted an excuse to spill what he knew—or 
thought he knew. He had been maneuvering for 
that these past six weeks and Judd had often 
cursed the fate that had chosen the rich, loud, brash 
Earle Gracie as a witness of his retreat from the 
church that fateful summer day. 

Earle and Judd had been classmates for three 
years but they had never been friends. Cliff tol¬ 
erated him because since childhood they had both 
spent their summers at the Harbor. Judd had merely 
ignored him. But he had been difficult to ignore this 
year. The first day the two had met on the campus, 
Earle had greeted him loudly with, “Hey, Judd, 
how about going on a little sightseeing trip today? 
I know where you can find some dandy historic 
churches.” 

Judd had grinned and pretended not to under¬ 
stand. But never after that did he meet Judd with¬ 
out some facetious reference to a church. Judd 
avoided him whenever possible, but there were 
times, days like today when his nerves were on 
edge with longing for Lora, with wondering and 


1 12 And Both Were Young 

worrying, that his hands itched for Earle’s throat. 

He went back to his room without having lunched 
and set to work on an overdue philosophy paper. 
Philosophy indeed! When all he could think of was 
Lora. “Quite all right to disregard your promise,” 
she had assured him in her wire. That did not sound 
like Lora. Something had happened, what could 
happen? He jabbed his fisted hand into his cheek 
and bent over his paper. He wrote, “Aristotle and 
the First Philosophy—” and stared out of his window 
at the dusty, wrinkled leaves on an ancient elm. His 
mind said, 

“There are more things in heaven and earth. Mister 
Aristotle, 

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy—” 

Yeah, Shakespeare was right. There was love. 
Where did it come from, where did it lead? Why 
was it ecstasy, why was it torture! Who knew, who 
cared—so long as it was. And that was darned funny, 
for it was more torture than ecstasy. A year ago, for 
example, he had been a happy man with a heart light 
as a bubble. Now, here he sat, as he had sat hour 
upon untold hour these endless weeks, steeped in 
misery—“Hell!” he said aloud and looked at the 
clock and lit a cigarette. Cliff would be starting back 
by now—or pretty soon anyway. He ought to be 
here by seven—well, eight, then. 


And Both Were Young 113 

It was close to nine when Cliff returned. Judd was 
in his shirt sleeves, his dark trousers were dusty with 
ashes, the ashtrays on his desk held the stubs and 
ashes of countless cigarettes. He said, “Well, it’s 
about time! Where the devil you been—Canada?” 

Cliff tossed his hat on a chair and sat down. “The 
lights were agin me all the way from New London.” 

Judd stood over him. “Well, how was she? Did 
you give her my letter—you saw her, didn’t you?” 

“Yup, I saw her. Pull yourself together. You’re 
behaving like an old woman.” 

“I feel like one,” but he perched himself on the 
desk, long legs swinging. “What was the trouble? 
She’s all right, isn’t she?” 

Cliff didn’t know what to say, which was rather 
unusual for Cliff whose mental processes were, as a 
rule, clear and deliberate. “Yes, she’s all right— 
that is, she’s perfectly well, but she—” he stopped, 
dove into his pocket for the little jeweler’s box and 
held it out. “She sent this back—I tried—naturally, 
I tried to—I didn’t want to bring it—hell! Why don’t 
you do your own dirty work!” 

Judd was staring stupidly at the box. “What’s 
that?” he said and reached for it. He snapped it open 
and looked at the little square diamond in its velvet 
bed. Then he looked across at Cliff. “What—what 
did she want to do that for?” 

“How do I know? Dammit, why does anyone do 


114 And Both Were Young 

anything? She doesn’t want it, I suppose!” His voice 
scraped harshly. Lora’s face was still fresh in his 
mind, now here was Judd’s—his best friend’s—rav¬ 
aged by the same, cruel, inexplicable force. “She 
says she doesn’t want to wear it—because it doesn’t 
mean anything!” 

“Doesn’t—mean anything?” 

“That’s what she said—I don’t know that I blame 
her. Oh, I don’t blame you, either. It’s just a—a 
mess! You better forget it.” Judd was staring again 
at the little ring and Cliff jumped up and went across 
to him, laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, fella 
—God knows, I’m sorry. I used to think I’d be glad 
if this happened, but I’m not. I’d do anything I 
could to make it right—but I guess nobody can do 
that. It’s just one of those things.” 

“Yeah,” Judd said. “It’s just one of those things.” 
He closed the box and gave Cliff a sickly grin. “Let’s 
have it—what happened?” 

So Cliff told him as accurately as he could, what 
had happened, the things Lora had said. Judd lis¬ 
tened quietly, turning the fragile box over and over 
in his strong, brown fingers; occasionally he would 
nod as though Cliff’s words checked with something 
in his own mind. 

“I imagine what started it,” Cliff said, “was that 
friend of Hannah’s—some little twirp of a freshman 
—spilling the beans. I mean about—” 


And Both Were Young 115 

“I know what you mean,” Judd said. “These 
things will get around, won’t they? And you can’t 
blame her for being a little sore. It’s bad enough 
to have a man jilt you at the altar and make a pub¬ 
lic laughing stock of you but it must be even harder 
to discover that he jilted you because you don’t 
move in the Best Circles.” 

Cliff said quickly, “She doesn’t blame you for that 
part of it.” 

“No! You mean she believes I didn’t see through 
it? Nobody could believe any grown man could be 
that much of a moron.” He leaned over Cliff, 
chalky-faced, grinning. “But, listen to this and 
laugh! I thought it was all on the square. So help 
me, I did! When Mother took that place in town 
I actually believed it was because she wanted to see 
a little New York life. That’s what she said and I 
believed her. Even those nice little parties of hers 
with all the lovely eligible girls sprinkled around 
where I had to be civil to ’em or fall over ’em—even 
then I didn’t see through her.” He shoved the little 
box in his pocket and slid off the desk. “I actually 
had the idea that people considered an engagement 
a kind of sacred thing. Would you believe that!” 

“I wouldn’t be too hard on your mother,” Cliff 
said. “She probably thought—” 

“She thought it was all for the best, as the dear 
things say,” Judd said. “And it’s a parent’s preroga- 


Ii6 And Both Were Young 

tive to cheat its young because naturally the young 
don’t know what’s good for ’em.” 

His coat was hanging on a chairback. He went 
over to it and dragged it on and started for the door. 
Cliff got up, too, said casually, “I didn’t stop for 
dinner. You had yours?” 

“Dinner? I don’t know—guess I must have.” 

“Well, come on down to Brownie’s and have a beer 
with me while I eat, will you?” 

Judd stopped with his hand on the doorknob. 
Without turning, he said, “I’d rather not, if you 
don’t mind. I—I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good 
company.” 

“Any company’s better than eating alone,” Cliff 
said. “Come on. I’m empty as your hat.” 

Judd saw through that. He knew that Cliff didn’t 
want his company any more than he wanted Cliff’s 
but it was one of the obligations of friendship to 
rally round the bereaved. Cliff linked his arm in 
Judd’s and Judd grinned at him wryly. “You might 
leave me alone to brood a little.” 

“I might,” Cliff said. “In fact, I will after I’ve 
had my steak and you’ve had your beer. You’ve no 
idea what an aid to brooding a good beer can be, my 
man.” 

Brownie’s was noted for its steak and French fries. 
It was a small, meretriciously humble place with 
panelled walls and checked tablecloths and steins. 


And Both Were Young 117 

It catered chiefly to college men who could afford 
to pay for their meals in two places and eat only in 
one. Saturday was not Brownie’s best day though 
earlier in the evening the place had been well filled 
and even now several late and strictly masculine 
dinner parties lingered over their beer and high¬ 
balls. They hailed Judd and Cliff when the two 
came in and Brownie himself hurried forward to 
seat them in his best maitre d’hotel manner. 

When Cliff had given their order, he told Judd, 
“You know, I figure I got fourteen miles to the gal¬ 
lon out of that bus today.” 

“Swell,” Judd said. In the smoky light his face 
looked bony, all hollows and shadows. “Fourteen— 
that’s something. I see our funny friend Mr. Gracie 
is with us tonight—he seems to be trying to attract 
your attention.” 

Cliff turned and lifted his hand in salute to the 
four men in a booth across the room and Earle called, 
“C’mon over. Don’t be so exclusive.” 

Cliff called back, “Thanks, but I’ve got a date 
with a steak. You wouldn’t want us.” 

Earle said, “Who’s that with you? It wouldn’t be 
Judd Harcott!” 

“No, it’s Doctor Dafoe,” Cliff said and, in a low 
voice to Judd, “What’s the matter with him? Did 
you cut him?” 

“Didn’t notice the guy till just now.” 


Ii8 And Both Were Young 

“Well, better say hello or something. He sounds a 
little tight to me, more than a little, and Earle’s 
touchy when he’s tight.” 

Judd drawled, “You don’t say!” and fixed his eyes 
on the pink blur that was Earle’s face. “That’s too 
bad.” 

Cliff gave him a look, leaned across the table. 
“Listen, I’ve been thinking about that estimate for 
reconditioning the Reckless. It’s a devil of a lot of 
money, Judd. With a few more hundred we could 
buy a new cruiser. What do you say?” 

“What?” 

“About junking her. Or better still, maybe we 
could patch her up a little and sell her for a few 
dollars.” 

“Good idea,” Judd said. He was leaning against 
the high wooden back of the seat staring over Cliff’s 
shoulder, staring steadily across the room at Earle 
Grade. “I never did like his face,” he said. 

“Whose face— Oh, forget it!” The waiter brought 
his steak and Judd’s beer. “That smells like it might 
be good, sure you won’t eat, Judd?” 

“No, thanks.” Judd took a long drink and wiped 
the foam from his mouth. 

Cliff had his back to Earle’s table, didn’t see Earle 
get up and come, not too steadily, across the room. 
Cliff was saying, “After all a boat’s like a car, you’ve 
got to—” when he suddenly saw Earle standing there 


And Both Were Young 119 

beside them. He spoke quickly, cordially, “Hello, 
there! Sit down!” 

But Earle was looking at Judd, his round face red¬ 
der than usual, his jaw thrust out. “Would you 
mind telling me just what you think you’re looking 
at?” 

“Not at all,” Judd said, without moving. “I 
thought I was looking at you.” 

Cliff said, “Oh, come on—sit down, Earle. Have 
a beer on me?” 

But Earle said to Judd, “Well, I don’t like it. I 
don’t like the way you’ve been looking at me, Harcott. 
I thought maybe I’d better tell you I didn’t like it.” 

Judd continued to sit there, his ruddy head against 
the ruddy back of the seat, his eyes half closed, star¬ 
ing indifferently at Earle. “Oh, skip it, Earle,” Cliff 
said. “Judd’s not responsible tonight—he’s feeling 
rotten—he—he’s just had a tooth pulled. You know 
how that is!” 

“Yeah? A tooth pulled?” Earle said. Then he 
laughed. “That’s funny. I thought he had ’em all 
pulled last summer. You know, that day we saw 
him coming out of the dentist’s office—or was it a 
church?” 

Judd’s fingers, locked around the handle of his 
stein, loosened. He sat up. And Cliff said sharply, 
“Scram, Earle. For Pete’s sake—can’t you see Judd’s 
sick?” 


120 And Both Were Young 

“Let him say it, Cliff,” Judd said quietly. “He’s 
had something on his mind all this autumn—must 
have been a strain. Better let him get it off his chest.” 

He had got very deliberately to his feet as he 
spoke and Cliff said, “Sit down—don’t act like a 
fool!” He turned on Earle. “If you know what’s 
good for you, you’ll beat it, Grade!” 

“Is that a threat?” Earle asked. He placed both 
hands on the table and leaned to Judd. “I’ll go 
when he apologizes. I’m not used to being stared 
at as if I were some damn freak.” 

Judd said. “No? That’s odd.” 

Earle’s red face turned purple. Cliff was on his 
feet, too, now, conscious that every man in the place 
was staring. He saw Brownie come out of the bar 
and make for them, a set smile on his swarthy face 
intended to convey the impression that nothing ex¬ 
traordinary was happening. Two of the men at 
Earle’s table had come hurrying over. One of them 
grasped his arm. 

“Better skip it, Earle. Old Dingle’s over in the 
corner taking it all in.” 

“Old Dingle” was head of the English department 
but the presence of the entire faculty could not have 
averted the storm now. Earle shook off his friend’s 
hand, shouted, “He started it, let him apologize! 
All I did was kid him a little. He’s been sore at me 
ever since I happened to find out about—” 


121 


And Both Were Young 

“You’ve gone far enough, Grade,” Judd warned 
him, ominously calm. 

“Not as far as you’d like to have gone that day 
your mamma caught up with you at the—” 

Judd rested one hand on the table and hurtled 
it in a bound. The impact of the two bodies made 
a sickening thud. They went down together but were 
up at once, close locked, a double-headed monster 
reeling about the small, smoke-filled room, leaving 
a havoc of overturned tables and broken dishes and 
spilled beer in its wake. Earle’s companions and 
Cliff followed, clutching and protesting. The other 
diners, subscribers to the belief that man is not his 
brother’s keeper, flattened themselves against the 
end wall where they could enjoy the combat in 
comparative safety. 

Brownie made one or two appeals in his character 
of respectable restaurateur—“Gentlemen, gentle¬ 
men!”—and then reverted to type. “Hey, quit that! 
Whatcha tryin’ to do—wreck my place! Lay off that 
stuff! Just because you got a little money and go 
to college—hey. I’ll call the police!” He did call 
the police. He went to the door and sent a series 
of anguished howls into the night: “Help! Mur¬ 
der! Pol eeze!" 

Cliff said, “Judd, for God’s sake!” 

And someone else, “Pry ’em apart! Some of you 
fellows come and help.” 


1 22 And Both Were Young 

For there was no question as to the outcome of 
that impromptu affray. Earle was a big young man 
but soft. He fought with rage and terror; Judd 
fought with skill and a cool and careless zest that 
was fearful to see. The sound of Earle’s hard breath¬ 
ing tore through the din of breaking dishes and shuf¬ 
fling feet and then there was another sound, like 
the impact of a bat and ball, and Earle dropped in 
an ungainly heap. 

“Just kidding!” Judd said, standing over him, 
shooting his cuffs. “Come on, upsy daisy, you old 
kidder!” 

But before Earle could rise, Cliff had Judd by 
the arm, was giving him the bum’s rush, cursing 
softly and expertly. A small crowd had gathered 
outside the door. They wanted to know what was 
the matter and between howls for help, Brownie was 
telling them, inveighing against college men who 
broke up respectable restaurants “Jest because they 
got a little money and go to college—Help! Poleeze!” 

“Shut up!” Cliff said. “We’ll make it all right 
with you. Just send me the bill for damages.” He 
shoved Judd through the crowd to his car. “Get in 
there—you—you idiot!” 

Judd climbed in obediently. As Cliff took the 
wheel, he saw a blue-coated figure coming on the 
run and stepped hard on the gas. Judd sat silent, 
adjusting his tie, smoothing his hair. Cliff said 


And Both Were Young 123 

grimly, “Don’t forget to powder your nose!” and 
found that he was shaking. Presently he drew over 
to the curb and stopped the car. They were well 
away from Brownie’s now on a deserted, shabby little 
street and Cliff demanded furiously, “Damn you! 
What did you do that for? Do you realize what 
you’ve done! What did you have to do that for— 
on top of everything else! You—you fool!” 

Judd shrugged. “I’ve been wanting to hit that 
guy for months.” 

“Well, you hit him! And old Dingle saw you do 
it. I suppose you know what that means.” 

“He scratched me,” Judd said, running a finger 
along his cheek, “like a damn girl. I’ll bet it’s 
bleeding.” 

“They’ll throw you out of college—you know what 
they did with Bancker and his gang after that brawl 
—and you can bet Brownie will raise hell. This is 
going to cost you your degree.” 

“What of it? Who cares about a degree? And they 
won’t throw me out because I’m getting out.” 

“Listen, Judd, I know you had provocation—so 
do those others—even old Dingle must have seen 
Earle come over to our table, heard what he said. 
If you go straight to old Hardie and tell him the 
whole business—be perfectly honest with him, tell 
him the facts—” 

“Swell! Tell him why Earle started it—what he 


124 And Both Were Young 

was kidding me about! Don’t worry! They’ll all 
know it soon enough without my telling them! 
And won’t they have a good laugh!” 

“Let them laugh. That’s better than being thrown 
out at this stage of the game, isn’t it?” 

“I tell you they’re not going to throw me out,” 
Judd said. “Come on, let’s get going. I want to 
pick up some clothes and my car—” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“You’ll be surprised,” Judd said. 

It was nearly Sunday morning and dawn had al¬ 
ready made dirty gray shadows of her windows be¬ 
fore Lora had fallen asleep. Then she had had a ter¬ 
rible dream. She dreamed that she and Judd were 
back in the little church at Harbor Village trying to 
persuade old Frederick Hedd to marry them. But 
old Frederick said he couldn’t because Judd had 
forgotten to bring his college degree and that with¬ 
out it no marriage would be legal. So Judd went 
home to get his degree and Lora was alone and the 
church was dark and she was frightened and called 
for Judd. Then it seemed that someone had locked 
him out and he was outside knocking on the door 
and Lora couldn’t let him in because Hay had just 
come off the Reckless with a huge basket of fish and 
they were all leaping out of the basket and menacing 
her with hideous pop eyes and open mouths— 


And Both Were Young 125 

She sat up in bed cold with horror but realizing, 
too, that it was all just a dream. All except the 
knocking. There was someone tapping steadily on 
the door, whispering her name—“Miss Paris! Miss 
Paris!” 

Lora recognized the voice of the chambermaid, 
Nettie, and sprang out of bed. She caught up her 
bathrobe and opened the door. 

Nettie had an envelope in her hand and she spoke 
in a whisper out of deference to the day and the 
early hour: “A little boy just brought this, Miss. 
He says the gentleman asked him to bring an an¬ 
swer.” 

Lora had to take the letter back into her room 
for the long corridor was still almost dark. She hud¬ 
dled her robe about her and went to the window 
while Nettie stood in the doorway and waited. The 
envelope had Judd’s name and address typed on its 
face but her own had been scribbled in pencil be¬ 
tween the typed lines. Scribbled in Judd’s hand. 
She was wide awake instantly, the last miasmic mist 
of her dream gone, her heart pounding. 

“Dear Sir— 

We take pleasure in advising you of the arrival of a 
new consignment of our noted Scotch tweeds—” 

She flipped the paper over. Judd had written on 
the back, 


And Both Were Young 


126 

“Darling, 

I’m parked in the little lane that runs behind the 
chapel. Know where I mean? Turn right as you come 
out of the North gate and then right again. Get it? 
I’ve got the license and both rings. We can drive across 
the state line and before lunch you’re going to be the 
girl who did elope. Bring some clothes and leave a note 
on the pin-cushion for your Alma Mater. Tell her 
you’re retiring into private life and come as quickly 
as you can, darling. I’ve been pretty dumb but hope 
for a speedy recovery. Come, my blessed. 

Judd 

P.S.: You might just tell the boy O.K. Then I’ll know 
everything is O.K. and it’ll make the waiting easier. Ten 
minutes is a long time. Can you do it in less, darling?” 

Nettie stood in the doorway. Her eyes were puffy 
for she had been to a double feature movie the 
night before with her boy friend. But she was wide 
awake and terribly excited for it was no usual thing 
for little boys to bring messages to the girls at seven 
o’clock on a Sunday morning and she scented ro¬ 
mance. fora’s reception of the letter confirmed her 
delighted suspicions. To be sure Lora didn’t crum¬ 
ple the letter and hold it to her breast and gaze ec¬ 
statically at the ceiling, which Nettie’s experience of 
such crises as portrayed on the screen had led her 
to believe was the proper reaction of a lady receiving 
a love letter. Lora just folded the letter and shoved 
it back in its envelope. But Nettie could see, as 


And Both Were Young 127 

she afterward confessed, that her hands were unsteady 
and that she was all of a-twitter. “All of a-twitter 
and looking like she’d just won the sweepstakes,” 
said Nettie later. 

The window was still open and Lora sprang at 
it and closed it. Then she hurried across to her 
bureau and dragged open the top drawer, took out 
her purse and came across to Nettie. She had looked 
pinched and scared when she had opened the door 
but now, even with her hair all tousled and her bath¬ 
robe on inside out, she was radiant. She said, 
“Thanks, Nettie. Will you give the boy this—and 
tell him to tell the gentleman that—that it’s O.K., 
will you? And this is for you—” 

“Oh, I couldn’t take—” 

“Please take it. I want you to have it. And, Net¬ 
tie, please don’t say anything about this, will you— 
not until after I’m gone, anyway.” 

“Gone?” Nettie said. “Are you going away? I 
mean, you’re not going for good!” 

Lora laughed softly. “Yes, for good— Oh, you 
can help me if you will, Nettie, will you? I’m only 
going to take one suitcase and my weekend bag. Do 
you think you could find time to pack my trunk— 
and the books and things? Then in a few days I’ll 
write and tell you where to send them.” 

“Sure. Sure, I’ll be glad to do that, Miss, only— 
you mean no one knows you’re leaving?” 


128 And Both Were Young 

Lora shook her head. “Not yet. You see—” she 
stopped. Nettie’s thin young face was thrust forward 
eagerly, her eyes warm with excitement and sym¬ 
pathy. Lora burst out, “If you can keep a secret, 
I’ll tell you why I’m leaving, Nettie.” 

Nettie drew a hasty cross on the bib of her apron. 
“So help me, Miss Paris, I won’t breathe it to a 
soul.” 

“I’m going to be married.” 

“Married! Today?” 

“Today.” 

“Golly!” Nettie said, breathless. “Golly! You—” 

“Now hurry and give the boy the message, will 
you? Then if you want to come back and help—” 

Twenty minutes later, Nettie unbolted the heavy 
hall door and Lora stepped out into the chill late 
October morning. A thin rime frosted the grass and 
the withered leaves of the tall old trees. The clouds, 
swollen with snow, hung low above the ancient, ivy- 
grown buildings. In the distance a church bell tolled 
for early Mass and, for a moment, it seemed to Lora 
that she had stepped back into some deserted, medi¬ 
eval world. She would not have been surprised to 
see Judd, in doublet and hose, come prancing across 
the broad campus on a high white stallion— 

Instead, Judd had come in his shabby old road¬ 
ster. She saw him, pacing up and down beside it, 
as she rounded the corner of Chapel Lane. Tall as 


And Both Were Young 129 

she remembered him, ruddy head uncapped. When 
he saw her he came running, long legs flying easily 
over the frozen ground, topcoat flapping. Her 
strength left her, she set her bags on the ground and 
stood there waiting. 

“Darling, darling, darling!” 

“Judd!” 

His unshaven cheeks were rough, his kisses sweet 
and fierce, he held her close. “Lora! Dearheart, let 
me look at you.” 

He held her off and looked and Lora’s eyes fell 
shyly away from his and her cheeks burned. “Judd, 
you must have been driving half the night.” 

“What did you think I’d do? Take my conge lying 
down?” 

“Darling, I couldn’t—” 

“Never mind. I had it coming to me. It was just 
what I needed to jar me awake.” He drew her back 
to him. “Let’s not talk about it—what do you think 
of my plan?” 

“What is your plan?” 

“Well, I think this license we got last summer is 
as good as ever—if it isn’t, we’ll manage to get it re¬ 
newed.” 

“Can you renew a marriage license?” 

“Why not? You can renew a car license,” he said 
and they laughed brokenly. “After we’re married, 
guess what? We’re going on a honeymoon. Now 


130 And Both Were Young 

don’t get any ideas about Europe or Bermuda—but 
I guess we can find some place where we can be 
alone and get acquainted again—what’s the matter?” 

“We can’t really, can we? You have to get back 
to college tomorrow, don’t you?” 

“Not I, darling. Little Juddy’s school days are all 
over.” 

She tilted her head to look into his eyes. “Judd, 
you don’t mean you’re not going back at all! But 
you’ve got to—you’ll lose your degree!” 

“Do you think I’d rather lose you? Do you think 
I’m going to let you go again?” He kissed her eyes, 
laid his cheek hard on hers. “This time we’re going 
to have a title that means something, darling—a 
title and everything that goes with it.” He let her 
go and stooped and picked up her bags. “Come 
along, sweet. Is there some place around here where 
we can get a bite of breakfast?” 

She followed him to the car and stood watching 
him put the bags in the rumble seat. “Yes—I think 
so. But, Judd—” 

“Good—hop in—” 

His arm was around her, helping her, but she 
shook her head. “I—I can’t! I didn’t know you— 
that would be awful—for you to lose your degree. 
I’d never forgive myself—it would be all my fault—” 

He laughed. “Oh, no, it wouldn’t, darling. I’ve 
already lost it—so you see it wasn’t your fault at all.” 


And Both Were Young' 131 

Her eyes spread. She stared at him, puzzled and 
alarmed. “You’ve already lost it?” 

“I socked Earle Gracie on the nose last night and 
when you sock a man it makes an unpleasant noise 
and respectable colleges don’t like unpleasant noises. 
So you see—I’m out.” 

“Oh, darling! But it wasn’t your fault—it was 
Earle’s fault. He always was a bully. It must have 
been his fault. You could tell them that, couldn’t 
you?” 

“I could, but why should I? Come on, hop in!” 

But she held back, shaking her head. “No— Oh, 
Judd, your parents will feel terribly. They’ll never 
forgive me—never forgive either of us now if we—” 

“Who cares!” he said savagely. “Haven’t they 
done enough to us! We can’t hurt each other any 
more than they’ve already hurt us. We’re on our 
own, now—we have to live our own lives!” 

She cried, “Yes—that’s it! Don’t you see, darling? 
That’s why we mustn’t mess them all up. Oh, I felt 
the same as you do. When your note came this 
morning, I thought nothing could stop us now, I 
thought that now we’d have our revenge—like peo¬ 
ple in books, you know. But that’s silly! Don’t 
you see —if we were to run away and get married now 
—on top of your trouble with Earle—being thrown 
out of college—it would spoil everything—ruin your 
life—” 


132 And Both Were Young 

“You didn’t worry about things like that last 
summer.” 

“I didn’t know enough. Maybe I didn’t love you 
enough. Maybe they were right about that. I do 
now.” She locked her hands behind his head and 
urged him, her lips against his cheek. “If you’ll go 
back—” 

“I tell you I can’t!” 

“If you explain they’ll take you back, darling. I 
know they will. And I’ll wait—I’ll be patient. I 
won’t mind what anyone says. Judd, if you truly 
love me, you’ll go back.” 

“And if you truly loved me, you’d take a chance 
and—” 

A car shot past the corner, stopped with a shriek 
of brakes and backed up. Lora slipped out of Judd’s 
arms. He muttered, “This seems to be a popular 
spot,” and opened the door of the roadster. “Let’s 
get moving.” But before he could help her in, two 
men were out of the other car and coming hurriedly 
toward them. 

One of them called, “Just a minute! Your name 
Harcott, young man?” 

Judd turned his haggard face and looked at them 
resentfully. “It is.” 

“Thought so.” The man was beside them now, a 
large man, and as he spoke he flipped back his coat. 
It was the first time, outside of the theater, that Lora 


And Both Were Young 133 

had ever seen that gesture or the legal star it re¬ 
vealed. “My name’s O’Ranny. I’m from headquar¬ 
ters. We just got word from Haver ton to pick you 
up if you happened to come through here.” 

Lora took her foot off the running board of the 
roadster and slipped her arm through Judd’s. He 
gave it a reassuring squeeze and frowned on Officer 
O’Ranny and his silent partner. “Pick me up? What 
do you mean?” 

“They want you in Haverton. Seems that fellow 
you socked last night—well, you must have hit him 
pretty hard. The poor guy’s not expected to live.” 



V —^HE HAVERTON PRESS HAD BEEN ON THE NEWS- 

stands since dawn and the old college town had par¬ 
taken simultaneously of its coffee and the latest 
campus scandal—STUDENT IN COMA AFTER 
BRAWL. POLICE SEARCH FOR HAVERTON 
SENIOR’S MISSING ASSAILANT-so that it was 
an old story by the time Judd was delivered up to 
justice. But it was new to Judd, whose haggard un¬ 
shaven cheeks went livid under the implication that 
he had deliberately run away. 

Cliff Sidney said, “I told them they were all wet, 
that you’d no idea Earle was really hurt, that you’d 
simply gone to Lockwood to see your girl.” Cliff 
had been waiting in the smoky little police station. 
He had confessed himself at once. “They came 
tearing up to the house about an hour after you’d 
gone. I told them the whole business exactly as it 
happened—but that damned reporter wanted a 
story—” 

“Sure he wanted a story,” Judd said. “Gimme a 
cigarette, will you?” 


134 


And Both Were Young 135 

Cliff handed over his pack. “They can’t hold you, 
of course. All they can do is arraign you on a charge 
of assault and battery and admit you to bail—” 

“They can save their breath. I’m broke.” 

“Don’t be touchy. I can rake up the money, if 
you can’t.” 

“Thanks, but you needn’t bother. I’ll go to jail.” 

“You know darn well your people won’t let you 
do that.” 

“My people aren’t going to know anything about 
this if I can help it.” 

“You can’t! And how do you think they’re going 
to feel if you let these gorillas lock you up! And 
what about Lora?” 

Judd’s weary face lighted up, his bitter smile sof¬ 
tened. “It’s all right, Cliff—everything’s all right, 
again. I knew it would be if I could just see her, 
talk to her. She—” 

“I mean about your going to jail. How’s she 
going to feel about that?” 

“Don’t you think Lora would rather I’d go to jail 
than appeal to my parents—after what they’ve done to 
us?” Judd said, low and savage. “Do you think it 
would make any difference to her—even if Earle 
dies and they have me up for murder! You don’t 
know Lora!” 

Cliff shook his head hopelessly. “Now you’re talk¬ 
ing like a romantic fool.” 


136 And Both Were Young 

“Listen, this wouldn’t have happened if I’d had 
more faith in her and less in other people. I’m on 
my own, now. I’ll take my dose—like a man—and 
Lora will stand by me.” 

An officer nudged Judd. “Come along, buddy.” 

There is a nightmarish quality about all legal 
procedure that is devastating to a law-abiding citizen. 
Judd had had hours to adjust and brace his spirit 
for the ordeal but the atmosphere of blase indiffer¬ 
ence and cynical disbelief common to every police 
court, reduced him to a state of almost speechless 
rage and defiance. When they asked him, “Well, if 
you didn’t know you’d hurt Gracie, why were you 
in such a hurry to get out of town?” he said angrily, 
“I wasn’t in a hurry to get out of town. I was in a 
hurry to get to Lockwood.” 

“Yeah? What’ja want to get to Lockwood in such 
a hurry for?” 

And Judd roared, “Because I was going there to 
be married!” 

At the back of the smoky little room, Cliff groaned 
inwardly and a reporter from the Press sat up 
straighter and scribbled something on a crumpled 
pad. What he scribbled made a nice little spread 
for the morning edition of his paper— 

HAVERTON SENIOR’S WEDDING PLANS 
BROKEN UP BY BRAWL. JUDD HARCOTT 
PROSPECTIVE BRIDEGROOM, JAILED IN 


And Both Were Young 137 

LIEU OF BAIL ON CHARGES OF ASSAULT 
AND BATTERY. GRACIE STILL UNCON- 
SCIOUS- 

It was after he read that story that Cliff Sidney 
telephoned Bailey Harcott in Cleveland and an hour 
later, Bailey was en route to Haverton in an east- 
bound plane. He was a man of resource and deci¬ 
sion and, when the first shock of Cliff’s message had 
abated somewhat, his mind took up his son’s prob¬ 
lem with something of his customary cool precision: 
First Judd must be freed and cleared of the charges 
against him; secondly the college authorities must 
be placated; thirdly the story must be hushed up 
before it spread beyond the confines of Haverton. 
With that thought in mind, his first act upon ar¬ 
riving at Haverton was to buy a copy of the Press. 
The sight of those screaming headlines caused him 
to reverse the order of his activities. Five minutes 
later, the staccato symphony of the Press city room 
was invaded by his enraged roar. 

‘‘Where’s the editor of this sheet! Where is he— 
are you the editor? My name is Harcott—what does 
this mean? How dare you print these outrageous 
lies about my son?” He waved the paper under the 
astonished editor’s nose. “Treating a simple acci¬ 
dent as though it were a—a Hollywood scandal! 
You’ll retract this story in your next edition, you 
hear, or I’ll start suit against you for libel—” 


138 And Both Were Young 

“Just a minute, please! There’s nothing in that 
story that isn’t—” 

“Unmitigated lies! He had no more intention of 
running away or of being married than—than I 
have—” 

“Your son himself confessed—” 

“Your paper is a disgrace to a respectable com¬ 
munity like this! You should be editing a Broad¬ 
way tabloid—” 

The editor’s manner, conciliatory at first, changed, 
his face darkened. He was a conscientious and politic 
man but he was no worm. His mounting rage kept 
pace with his accuser’s and when after a final and 
terrible peroration, Mr. Harcott stormed out, the 
editor dropped into his swivel chair and mopped 
the indignant sweat from his brow. The young 
reporter who had covered Judd’s case, eyed his boss 
furtively, got up and sidled over to the desk. 

“Look, boss, I swear to God that kid said—” 

“You needn’t bother to swear. Listen, Harker, 
there’s something behind all this. There’s more here 
than meets the eye—the boy says he was going to be 
married, the father denies it.” He leaned, narrow¬ 
eyed, across the cluttered desk. “Go on out and see 
what you can dig up. Find out the girl’s name and 
run up to Lockwood, see if you can get anything out 
of her. If you can’t, try the servants. Hunt up the 
boy’s mother and try to get her to talk. If anything 
good breaks, get it in as soon as you can.” He 


And Both Were Young 139 

brought his fist down hard on his desk. “That pom¬ 
pous windbag may have ’em all doing the goosestep 
in his own hometown, but I’m damned if he can 
come in here and bully me!” 

The results of Mr. Harker’s activities were suffi¬ 
ciently dramatic to be taken up by the metropolitan 
press and there was quite an impressive pile of 
newspapers on the Dean’s desk when Lora was sum¬ 
moned to her office on the following afternoon. The 
President was already there and the Provost and the 
Dean and the Dean of Women. Julia Paris was 
there, too, with hot splotches of red on her thin cheek¬ 
bones. And Marie Harcott was there, her heavy 
figure smartly gowned, her face paper white save 
for the red pencilled line of her mouth. 

How long they had been in conclave before they 
had summoned her, Lora did not know. When she 
went in, no one moved, no one spoke except Doctor 
Shannon who said in her deep, masculine voice, “Sit 
there, please, Lora,” and nodded to the empty chair 
facing her across the desk. Lora sat down, her back 
rigid, her chin high, looking at nothing, seeing 
everything; the dusty streaks from yesterday’s rain 
on the windows, the trees shivering in the sunless 
wind that blew across the campus, the books lining 
the walls, the turquoise loveknot that fastened Doc¬ 
tor Shannon’s lace bertha. 

The papers on the desk were folded to the story 


140 And Both Were Young 

that had embroiled the conservative old college in 
her first scandal. From where she sat, Lora could 
read the headlines upside down—HARCOTT’S 
FATHER DENIES SON’S INTENTION TO 
WED LOCKWOOD SOPHOMORE BUT MAID 
DISCLOSES PAIR PLANNED TO ELOPE-SAYS 
LORA PARIS CONFIDED SHE WOULD “RUN 
AWAY” WITH EARLE GRACIE’S ASSAILANT 
-POLICE ALLEGE FIANCEE WAS WITH 
HARCOTT AT TIME OF ARREST-HAR- 
COTT REFUSES FATHER’S OFFER OF BAIL 
-REMAINS PRISONER PENDING OUTCOME 
OF VICTIM’S INJURIES— 

Lora knew those headlines by heart but it was 
interesting to puzzle them out upside down. She 
feared they had shocked Doctor Shannon pretty 
badly. She looked shocked. Her kind, plain face was 
terribly drawn and grim. So were the Provost’s and 
the Dean’s. Miss Chester,, the Dean of Women, 
looked as though she had been crying. It touched 
Lora that they should take it like this; that the 
transgression of a student and a little unpleasant 
publicity could seem to them a matter of such sol¬ 
emn moment. She knew they expected her to re¬ 
gard it as solemnly and this amused her very much. 
With Judd in jail—a possible murderer—they could 
actually believe that being expelled from college mat¬ 
tered to her! 


And Both Were Young 141 

She had never intended to defend herself, would 
not have been here at all if it had not been for her 
mother’s passionate insistence. Julia had come fly¬ 
ing up from New York to her child’s defense and 
Lora had demanded of her, “Do you think I care 
what they do to me! Do you think I could stay on 
here now!” 

“Certainly you can! You shall! Do you think 
I’m going to let them expel you for something that 
wasn’t your fault!” 

“It was my fault that—” 

“Don’t talk like that! It wasn’t your fault that 
Judd Harcott killed Earle Grade—it was that 
woman’s fault! I’ve told them so—I’ve told Doctor 
Shannon everything frankly!” Lora could hardly 
believe that this was her mother—her voice strident 
with passion, her face blotchy with tears, her eyes 
wild. “None of this would have happened if it 
hadn’t been for her! She hated you and despised your 
family from the very first—if she’d let you alone, 
you’d have been all right—both of you. I’ve told 
Doctor Shannon all about it—I’m glad I did—be¬ 
fore that woman had a chance to poison their 
minds—” 

“What’s she doing here? What did she come up 
here for? Why isn’t she with Judd?” 

“She’s here because she wants to see you disgraced! 
She wants to ruin your life the way she has ruined 


142 And Both Were Young 

her son’s—trying to drag you into this horrible—” 

“She didn’t drag—” 

“But she shan’t do it! Your father’s ready to 
spend every cent he owns to keep your name out 
of it-” 

“He mustn’t do that!” Lora said quickly. “That 
doesn’t matter! I mean, it’s Judd—” 

“Doesn’t matter!” Julia cried. “How can you say 
such a thing? Doesn’t matter that you’ve disgraced 
yourself and us! Do you want your name coupled 
with a murderer’s!” 

“He’s not a murderer! He hadn’t any idea he’d 
really hurt Earle!” 

“You’ve read the newspapers—” 

“They’re full of lies! They said he was trying to 
escape. He wasn’t. He was going back of his own 
accord when those policemen—” 

Julia reached out suddenly and clutched her 
daughter’s arm, her face thrust forward. “You 
weren’t planning to run off and marry him, then?” 

“Yes—at first I was—before I knew he’d had trou¬ 
ble with Earle and wasn’t going back. Then I knew 
he’d lose his degree and I didn’t want him to do 
that—” 

“You tell them that! You hear me—you tell them 
just that,” Julia said, her nails driving like sharp 
pins into Lora’s forearm. “Tell them you weren’t 
going to marry Judd—I don’t think they believe you 


And Both Were Young 143 

were. They’re all on your side—the Dean and Doc¬ 
tor Shannon. Miss Chester told me so—she said no 
girl in college had a better record. If you just let 
them see you’re sorry—” 

If she would just let them see she was sorry—Lora 
thought of that now and almost smiled. But Doctor 
Shannon was opening her case and it would be impo¬ 
lite to appear to be smiling at the President’s sol¬ 
emn phrases: “—deplorable affair affecting not only 
the student body but the faculty—all the aims and 
purposes for which the college stands—in fairness 
to her fellow students, in justice to Lora herself— 
incumbent on us to ascertain the facts—” 

The deep voice rose and fell rhythmically. Lora 
sat quiet in her chair. The ghosts of last summer’s 
freckles faintly speckled her white cheeks. Her eye¬ 
lids were heavy with sleeplessness, her unrouged 
lips quite colorless. Only her slender, immature body 
and bright curls, caught back as usual with a narrow 
ribbon, were the body and curls of the schoolgirl 
these women believed they were trying for a regret¬ 
table indiscretion. Judd was in jail and if Earle 
Gracie died, he would be tried for murder and here 
were all these good, simple women solemnly intent 
on saving her from the disgrace of being expelled 
from college. 

All except Marie Harcott. Lora asked herself as 
she had asked her mother earlier, what was Mrs. 


144 And Both Were Young 

Harcott doing here. She turned her head suddenly 
and looked at Judd’s mother, her heavy, expensively 
corseted figure erect in the chair, her neatly waved 
iron gray hair showing beneath the brim of her 
small hat, her face set. 

Doctor Shannon was saying something about the 
newspapers and Nettie, the chambermaid. Some¬ 
thing about it’s being unfair to judge people on the 
evidence of newspaper stories and servants’ gossip, 
going on and on— 

Lora, staring hard at Mrs. Harcott, said suddenly, 
“What is she doing here?” 

There was a dreadful, stunned silence, then, “If 
you please!” Doctor Shannon said sharply. 

“What right has she to be here?” Lora said. 

The President’s face flushed crimson. She thun¬ 
dered, “Silence!” 

But kind-hearted Miss Chester said quickly, “I 
don’t think Lora means to be impertinent, Doctor 
Shannon. If you’ll forgive my saying so, she is quite 
within her rights in asking—” 

“Mrs. Harcott is here at my invitation,” Doctor 
Shannon said sternly to Lora. “She came here to ask 
you a few questions. Since you refused to see her, 
I felt it only fair to extend her the privilege of being 
present at this hearing. You must realize that Mrs. 
Harcott’s son’s freedom—his reputation, perhaps his 
life, are at stake—” 


And Both Were Young 145 

“Then why isn’t she there with him?” Lora said, 
frowning, twisting her handkerchief into a rope. Her 
mother was here with her. She didn’t care what 
happened to Judd, was determined only to protect her 
child. Judd’s mother owed him at least this loyalty. 
“He needs her there—” 

“Lora!” Julia Paris said and leaned forward and 
shook Lora’s arm. 

“Mrs. Harcott hopes and believes,” Doctor Shan¬ 
non said, speaking slowly and clearly, “that certain 
facts may come to light here that will serve as exten¬ 
uating circumstances in the event that her son’s case 
comes to trial—” 

“Extenuating circumstances?” Lora said and took 
her eyes off Marie Harcott’s face and fixed them on 
the President’s. “What does that mean?” 

The President leaned across the desk and looked 
at Lora and Lora realized suddenly that it was as 
her mother had said: the Doctor was on her side— 
they were all on her side, eager to prove her guiltless 
of anything more serious than unwisdom in the choice 
of a fiance. “Mrs. Harcott maintains that her son 
was incited to this quarrel by some act of yours, that 
he came here at your request—” 

Marie Harcott’s voice rang out sharp and urgent. 
“Not the day he—not Sunday. I don’t say that. What 
I do say is that she must have communicated with 
him in some way before that—threatened to break 


146 And Both Were Young 

her engagement to him if he did not come!” 

The President’s voice was grave. “You don’t know 
that this is true, Mrs. Harcott?” 

“I know it must be true, but I have no proof, if 
that is what you mean. I do know that she did break 
her engagement to him—returned his ring—” 

“Just a moment, please. Is that true, Lora?” 

Lora looked at her bare left hand. “Yes.” 

There was a little stir, a murmur, a quick ex¬ 
change of glances among her judges. Doctor Shannon 
said, “Then you were not engaged to the young man 
when he came here Sunday morning?” 

“No—I—no, I guess I wasn’t.” 

“It was getting the ring back that made Judd des¬ 
perate. He has never struck a man in passion in 
his life-” 

“You can hardly blame Lora because your son 
lost his temper,” the President said dryly. 

Marie Harcott’s face turned purple, her voice 
shook. “She sent back his ring not because she 
wanted to break with him but because she knew 
that would be the most effective way to make him 
break his promise to me. What happened Sunday 
proves that. She was going to marry him! Even 
though she knew he would lose his degree—that it 
would ruin his life. She would have done the same 
thing last summer as I told you—” 

Julia Paris half rose from her chair, Doctor Shan- 


And Both Were Young 147 

non brought her open palm down smartly on the desk. 
“Please! If we cannot conduct this inquiry with 
some degree of restraint, I shall be obliged to dis¬ 
miss it altogether.” She turned back to Lora. Her 
voice was definitely gentler, her eyes softer than 
they had been before. “We have no proof—nor, I 
believe, has Mrs. Harcott—that there is any truth 
in these accusations. We know only that you were, 
most unfortunately, with her son when he was ap¬ 
prehended—” 

“Why should she have told that maid she was 
leaving to be married? Why should she have taken 
her suitcase with her? She got him up here to marry 
her—” 

“That’s not true!” Julia Paris cried out. “She 
was trying to make him go back to college—she 
didn’t want him to lose his degree!” 

“Silence!” Doctor Shannon thundered. “Lora, 
what have you to say to this?” 

Lora flung out her arms. “Oh, what does it mat¬ 
ter now? What does it matter whether I was going 
to marry him or not! What—” 

“What does it matterV’ the President repeated, 
harsh and quick. “It matters very much indeed! 
It matters to us whether you were guilty of such a 
deliberate offense against society, your family and 
your alma mater or whether you are merely the un¬ 
fortunate victim of circumstance and unscrupulous 


148 And Both Were Young 

newspaper gossip. It is equally important that Mrs. 
Harcott should know whether you purposely broke 
your engagement to her son in an effort to lure him 
from his duties—thereby rendering him temporarily 
unbalanced and, as a consequence, less culpable, or 
whether he is solely responsible for his own actions.” 
She sat back a little in her chair but her eyes never 
for an instant left Lora’s intent gaze. “It seems to me 
illogical, to say the least, that you would be plan¬ 
ning to marry a man a few days after you had volun¬ 
tarily broken your engagement to him. It was wrong 
of you to see him at all, of course, since you were 
bound by a promise not to do so. If, however, you 
were not engaged to him at the time and if he came 
here of his own accord, persuaded you to see him 
against your better judgment—” 

Now Lora could have laughed aloud. They were 
putting words in her mouth, offering her the po¬ 
litest possible alibi. Or was it an alibi? She had 
been there all right, but only because Judd had 
persuaded her against her better judgment! She 
could feel her mother’s breathless eyes upon her, 
read the eager entreaty in the President’s measured 
words, feel the others waiting, tense and hopeful. 
They were fighting for the honor of their alma 
mater just as her mother was fighting for the honor 
of her child’s name. Just as Judd’s mother was 
fighting—not for the sadistic pleasure of seeing Lora 


And Both Were Young 149 

suffer but to prove that the girl she hated and her 
son loved was indirectly responsible for his crime. 
And wouldn’t Judd hate that! 

But they were all fighting in the only way they 
knew for the thing that was most important to them. 
You could not blame them for that. It was not al¬ 
ways possible to divide your loyalties. There were 
moments when every force of your being, every beat 
of your heart, must be concentrated on one alone. 

Lora did not think of it quite like this, but she 
saw the way that she, too, might fight for the one 
thing that was important to her. She thought with 
a little pang of these kind women, with a sharper 
pang of her parents, before she spoke. But when she 
did speak, her voice was clear and bold, those ex¬ 
tenuating circumstances must sound convincing. 

“I didn’t see him against my better judgment at 
all. I mean, I did know he’d come—after I sent 
back his ring. I knew if anything would make him, 
that would. Then—” 

“Lora!” Julia Paris gasped. 

Lora dared not look at her mother. “Nettie didn’t 
lie. I did tell her we were going to get married. 
We’d have done it, too, if those policemen hadn’t 
caught up with us. But Judd wasn’t trying to escape 
at all. I don’t think he even knew he’d hit Earle 
Grade—he said when he got my ring back that he 
kind of went out of his mind—” 


150 And Both Were Young 

The awful silence in the room was cut by a sud¬ 
den, sibilant sound. That was Mrs. Harcott. Lora 
looked at her blandly. 

“Of course I didn’t know anything like that was 
going to happen—I mean, I didn’t know he was 
going to fight about me. I just wanted to get him 
up here. He didn’t want to break that silly prom¬ 
ise. But I knew he was crazy about me and I just 
kept after him— 1 ” 

“You hear her?” Marie Harcott was on her feet. 
“You’ve all heard—” 

“It’s not true!” Julia Paris sprang at Lora and 
took her by the shoulders, shook her without know¬ 
ing she was shaking her. “You told me you were 
trying to make him go back—” 

“You all heard her! You see what she’s done to 
him—ruined his life—” 

‘ ‘Please—please—’ ’ 

“She had no intention of marrying him, I tell 
you!” 

Their strident voices shattered the academic peace 
of the Dean’s office. Lora slipped out of her mother’s 
hands and went hurrying up to her room to pack. 

Seven hours later she was saying earnestly to her 
father, “But, don’t you see, dad, it was the only 
thing I could do! I mean, if Earle does die, they can 
say that Judd didn’t know what he was doing when 
he hit him, they can blame it on me for sending back 


And Both Were Young 151 

the ring—don’t you see that can’t really hurt me and 
it may help Judd!” 

“That,” Julia said, “is the way she has been 
talking all the way from Lockwood.” 

She took off her coat and hat and pushed her hair 
off her forehead. She was a broken and desperately 
weary woman, and looked it. It was nearly mid¬ 
night. Lora’s unpacked bags still stood in the hall 
where the hall man had placed them five minutes 
before. New York sounded its nocturnal beat 
against the closed windows. 

“I’m sorry—I know it’s terribly hard on you,” 
Lora said. “But don’t you see, it is partly my fault. 
I mean, I did send back the ring and they did quar¬ 
rel over me. Judd did act kind of crazy, too.” 

George Paris looked haggard-eyed at his daugh¬ 
ter. That day, the days that had gone before it, had 
aged him. He was not a man given to retrospection 
but lately his mind had been tied, like a puppy to 
a stake—to that most futile of all words—If. If the 
Harcotts had never come to the Harbor; if Lora 
had never met Judd—if, if, if! Now George looked 
at his child, her small white face framed by the big 
fur collar of her coat, her eyes glazed, her round 
cheeks hollowed, and suffered as he had perhaps 
never suffered. She was so young! Why, Lord, it 
was only yesterday he was bringing her home from 
kindergarten and she was wearing a dress half as 


152 And Both Were Young 

long as his arm; a fat-legged, rosy-cheeked, sticky- 
fisted baby. What had happened, where had they 
slipped up? “There are no bad children, only bad 
parents,” was the way that old parson had put it 
last summer. 

Only bad parents. George said, “You’d better 
take off your things. Did you have dinner on the 
train?” 

“After all, what’s being expelled from college and 
getting your name in the paper,” Lora said, “com¬ 
pared to what Judd’s going through?” She stood 
up and began to take off her coat. “I mean, those 
are such little things—” 

“She hasn’t considered us—any of us—even for a 
moment,” Julia told her husband in a dead voice. 
“She seems to have no pride, no shame—and that 
woman will see that the newspapers get every word 
of this and won’t they love it!” 

“Dad, you understand, don’t you? If you’d been 
in my place and mother’s life was in danger—” 

“Don’t be ridiculous!” her mother cried. 

“That’s not ridiculous! I love Judd! I’d do any¬ 
thing—” 

“Yes! Sacrifice your whole future—your own flesh 
and blood! And how can you talk of loving him 
when his own mother—” 

“Never mind, never mind!” George Paris said 
harshly. “No sense crying over spilt milk. What’s 


And Both Were Young 153 

done is done. As Lora says, being expelled from col¬ 
lege is a small thing compared to being tried for 
murder.” He looked again at his daughter, a little 
grimly. “But it was a damned silly thing to do. This 
temporarily insane plea doesn’t go down very well 
with juries these days—nobody but a bunch of hys¬ 
terical women could believe it would. And I doubt 
if Judd’ll appreciate it—make a man look pretty 
much of a sap if a little thing like getting his ring 
back from a girl’d set him crazy.” 

“Looking silly is better than going to prison! Dad, 
they couldn’t hang him or—or anything—if Earle 
dies, could they? And if Earle gets well, they’ll let 
him out, won’t they? They can’t do anything to him 
if Earle gets well, can they?” 

“No, that is, if Earle recovers and withdraws the 
charges—which I suppose he’ll do since it’s pretty 
generally known he started the rumpus—here! Stop 
that, Jule!” 

For Julia was sobbing, terribly, uncontrollably. 
Her husband went to her and put his arms around 
her. Julia sobbed, “How can you talk to her! Oh, 
what have I ever done to deserve this!” 

Lora looked across at them with blazing, unseeing 
eyes. They didn’t care. Judd could hang or rot in 
prison. All they could think of was their silly pride! 
Well, let them! She was glad, glad of what she had 
donel 



t-V JLs JULIA HAD FORESEEN, THE PRESS “LOVED” THE 

newest developments in the Gracie-Harcott-Paris 
scandal. What had started as a garden variety student 
brawl, had developed all the earmarks of a “love tri¬ 
angle.” Especially made to order for the tabloids and 
those publications which make no detour via the 
mind in their appeal to the emotions. Already in pos¬ 
session of a variety of lurid half-truths, they did their 
best to substantiate these by going direct to Lora 
herself. They would have liked Her Own Personal 
Story of her Affair With Prominent Young College 
Senior and were prepared to pay for it. They were 
not a little astonished and offended when their gener¬ 
ous offer was refused by the irate father of the Girl in 
Love Triangle. But they treated what facts they had 
with ingenuity and imagination. They even managed 
to get hold of her boarding school senior year book 
and make a fair reproduction of her picture as of 
that period. 

The picture was disappointing. It showed the 
breathless public a pretty round-faced, curly-haired 
girl, smiling and shining-eyed—hardly the portrait 


154 



And Both Were Young 155 

of a lady whose charms had probably cost the life of 
one man and the freedom of another. But the cap¬ 
tion read —Lora Paris Before Judd Harcott Came 
Into Her Life, which implied that the Lora Paris 
after Judd Harcott had come into her life was the 
slinky, long-eyed siren of every tabloid reader’s 
imagination. 

The headlines required no imagination whatever: 
FIANCEE ADMITS SHE PLANNED SECRET 
MARRIAGE WITH EARLE GRACIE’S ASSAIL¬ 
ANT-SECOND ATTEMPT TO ELOPE FRUS¬ 
TRATED BY POLICE-PAIR OBTAINED LI¬ 
CENSE TO WED LAST SUMMER-CEREMONY 
STOPPED BY HARCOTT’S PARENTS-LOCK- 
WOOD EXPELS SOPHOMORE WHO ADMITS 
BREAKING ENGAGEMENT IN HOPE OF 
PERSUADING JUDD HARCOTT TO ELOPE. 
TIRED OF COLLEGE, DECLARES LORA 
PARIS. “I Knew If I Sent Back the Ring He Would 
Come To Me!” Harcott Alleged to be Unbalanced 
by Break with Sweetheart at Time of Attack on 
Classmate. Counsel to Plead Insanity in Event of 
Grade’s Death— 

Judd had read all this and more before his mother’s 
visit that morning. When Mrs. Harcott arrived, she 
found his cell strewn with newspapers supplied by 
a thoughtful jailer who had sympathized with his 
distinguished prisoner from the start; considered 


156 And Both Were Young 

him the victim of a woman’s perfidy and now had all 
his preconceived ideas confirmed by the press. He 
carried Judd all the papers with the biggest head¬ 
lines in the hope that they would dispel any linger¬ 
ing affection the young man might still entertain 
for the cause of his downfall. 

Judd read them all. He read the story of his 
romance with the Tailor’s Daughter, a detailed ac¬ 
count of their frustrated elopement last summer, 
their subsequent engagement. Mrs. Harcott had 
corroborated those details with every appearance of 
reluctance. Indeed, all her dealings with the Press 
had been marked by the restraint and aversion 
natural to a well-bred woman involved in her first 
public scandal. And, inevitably, the resultant story 
read like the familiar chronicle of the pure and 
superior youth lured to his doom by the wiles of 
a girl who was “beneath him.’’ Lora was “The 
Tailor’s Pretty Daughter,” Judd the “Banker’s 
Handsome Son.” By implication, George Paris’s pros¬ 
perous establishment became a squalid shop reeking 
of steam and naphtha and his wife a complaisant 
mother who had aided and abetted her daughter’s 
attempted misalliance for mercenary reasons. 

Mrs. Harcott had actually said none of these things. 
Asked why she had objected to her son’s marriage in 
the first place, she had replied that she considered the 
young pair incompatible. Mentally and socially. 


And Both Were Young 157 

She added that she did not in any way intend this 
as a reflection on Mr. and Mrs. Paris whom she 
scarcely knew— 

Judd read all this by the light that filtered through 
the small, high window of his cell. He shouted with 
loud, derisive laughter at some of it but Lora’s quoted 
confession raised muscles like ropes along his jaw. 
When he heard footsteps in the corridor, saw his 
mother’s face at the square, barred opening in his 
door, he sprang to his feet and brandished the paper 
he had been reading. 

“I thought you’d never come. Have you seen 
these—have you read this filthy tripe?” 

Her gloved hands curled hard around the bars. 
“Yes, but never mind that now, darling. Have they 
told you that Earle is better this morning? Definitely 
better. They told your father—” 

“They can’t get away with this! Where did they 
get hold of it—did you give those swine an inter¬ 
view?” 

She said, shaking, “Did you hear me tell you that 
Earle is better? What do you care about—” 

“What do I care?” he shouted. “Don’t you care? 
Do you want people to think your son is a cad and 
a half-wit—a half-witted cad, that’s what this makes 
me look like! And all those lies about Lora and me 
—about her being thrown out of college! Did you 
tell them that?” 


158 And Both Were Young 

“Certainly I didn’t—I didn’t know it, but I’m not 
surprised if it’s true.” 

“They can’t. They can’t treat her like that for 
something she never did!” 

She said, with her face pressed close to those 
dreadful bars, “Judd, I think you must be mad! 
Do you realize what I’m telling you! Earle is better 
—the doctors say he may be well enough to make a 
statement this afternoon. You may be out of here 
by tonight!” 

“Well, I’ll be back in again tomorrow if they ar¬ 
rest people for killings rats!” 

“You can talk like that—after all you’ve been 
through, after all we’ve suffered? I tell you you may 
be exonerated of murder and you—I can’t under¬ 
stand you, Judd. I thought you’d be wild with joy! 
Instead—I think you must be out of your mind.” 

“Yeah, temporarily unbalanced by break with 
sweetheart!” His grin was ghastly. It faded and he 
thrust a finger through the bars and touched her 
cheek. “Sorry, but all this—on top of everything 
else—those dirty lies about Lora! What do you sup¬ 
pose the Parises will think?” 

She made a gesture of despair. “Is that more im¬ 
portant to you than the knowledge that you may be 
a free man again in a few hours?” 

He went suddenly quite still, staring at her face 
with sunken, feverish eyes but not seeing her, see- 


And Both Were Young 159 

ing nothing, probing through some confusion within 
himself. “I don’t know—it wouldn’t have been be¬ 
fore this happened—all this dirty, cheap publicity, 
but somehow it doesn’t seem to matter so much 
now whether I ever get out of here or not.” She made 
a horrified sound and he said, “Oh, no man wants to 
feel he’s a murderer. Naturally I don’t want Earle 
to die, but whether he does or not, the damage is 
done now, don’t you see? I mean, before this,” and 
he shook the paper in his hand, “I knew I hadn’t 
done anything wrong—anything really low. Every¬ 
body knows I didn’t mean to kill Earle but—God! 
I’d almost rather have killed him than have done 
this to Lora!” 

She knew he was a sick man, hardly sane. She had 
seen that at once and had determined to say nothing 
that would not soothe and reassure him, but her 
self-control broke. She cried at him, “You’ve done 
to her! What has she done to you—” 

“Nothing but love me—try to make a man of 
me—” 

“Can’t you readf Have you read the things she 
said herself?” 

“She couldn’t have said them! They’re all lies, 
I tell you. She wanted me to come back. You want 
to believe the worst of Lora simply because you 
hate her—” 

“Judd, stop it! I won’t let you talk like this— 


160 And Both Were Young 

I won’t have it. You’re making yourself ill,—and 
you’re killing me!” 

He sank down on the narrow bunk that served him 
for a bed, and dropped his face in his hands. He 
looked enormous, crouched there on that narrow 
hanging shelf in that small bare cell. She looked at 
him through the bars and thought that they sym¬ 
bolized the impassable barrier that had grown up be¬ 
tween them these past few months. She had believed 
that this morning that barrier would have been dis¬ 
solved. When she had read the papers she had 
thought, “Now he will see what she is! Now he will 
see what she has done to him! He can’t help seeing 
now!” and she had thought that perhaps all this 
tragic time had been for the best. Yes, if Earle lived, 
she could find it in her heart to be glad Judd had 
been thrown into jail like a common criminal. He 
would emerge a sane man, at last, cured of the pas¬ 
sion that had so nearly wrecked his life— 

Judd got slowly to his feet. When he stood erect 
his ruddy hair brushed the low ceiling. He came 
and stood with his hot face close to hers. “Sorry 
again. Guess I am a little nutty—” 

“You’re depressed. You should never have stayed 
here, Judd. You’ve no idea how that has hurt your 
father—that you wouldn’t accept his help—” 

“I got myself into this mess, I’ll get myself out of 


it.” 


And Both Were Young 161 

"In a way were proud of you for feeling that way, 
darling. But were working for you all the same. 
Your father is working like a soldier—he thinks 
they’ll reinstate you in your class. After all, as you 
say, they all know you didn’t intend to hurt Earle. 
They all know he started the trouble. And you 
mustn’t worry about what the newspapers say. These 
things are soon forgotten.” 

"Not by me,” he said and the frown between his 
eyes deepened. "It can’t be forgotten by me. Don’t 
you seef That's what I mean—” 

She didn’t see. She only saw that the miracle she 
had hoped for had not come to pass. And, when she 
left him, even the certainty that he would soon be 
free was not sufficient to keep her shoulders erect 
or her feet from dragging. 

George Paris would have given a good deal to 
keep those papers from his wife. His own reaction 
was a frenzied desire for revenge. He would sue the 
Harcotts, force the papers to retract every word of 
those infamous lies. When he thought of thousands 
of breakfast tables gloating over those headlines, he 
went sick and weak with rage and shame. But his 
knowledge of the press and human nature told him 
that nothing he could do or say would repair the 
damage that had been done. Only time could do 
that. 


162 And Both Were Young 

Julia, however, refused to subscribe to this. For 
the first time since Hay’s birth, she was too ill to 
leave her bed and the doctor was called to attend her. 
She was in a fearful state. She had wept every vestige 
of beauty out of her face, her white hair spread in 
wild disorder over her pillow. Between spasms of 
weeping and nausea, she demanded instant retribu¬ 
tion. 

“They ought to be horsewhipped—like vicious dogs 
—no one would blame you—we’ll never be able to 
hold up our heads again—unless they take back every 
word—” 

George sat on the side of her bed and held her 
two hands in his and tried to explain. “I can’t make 
them take anything back, dear, because they haven’t 
actually said anything that isn’t true—” 

“Calling her the tailor's daughter—as though—” 

“She is a tailor’s daughter. Don’t you see, the 
whole business is like that. The facts are true, only 
the implications are lies.” 

“We can sue that woman for defamation of char¬ 
acter! The things they said about Lora—making her 
appear a nasty little hussy! A—a gold digger! An 
unscrupulous—” 

“Lora did that herself. The Harcotts really be¬ 
lieve she is to blame. You can’t be too hard on 
them—” 

“Can’t be too hard on them,” she screamed. “You 


And Both Were Young 163 

can say that! You, her own father—you’ll just sit here 
and let them ruin her reputation—ruin us all!” 

In the twenty years of their marriage he had never 
seen her like this. He had seen her racked by the 
pangs of childbirth, haggard and bedraggled after 
sleepless nights of caring for their sick children, 
but never like this. He said gently, “Try and be 
sensible, Jule. If I take this to court, it’ll only give 
the papers something else to write about—more 
headlines. If we keep quiet, it’ll blow over, be a 
nine days’ wonder. I feel just as badly about it as 
you do, but any lawyer will tell you I’m right.” 

She said in a terrible voice, “I could kill that 
woman! I could strangle her with my bare hands!” 
and George Paris laid his cheek on her mussed hair 
and thought he would never smile again. 

When he left the room a few moments later, he 
met Lora in the hall. He said, not looking at her, 
“Keep away from your mother, she’s ill—very ill. 
The doctor has just given her a sedative.” 

“I wasn’t going to bother her,” Lora said. “I was 
looking for you. Dad, I can’t find anything about 
Earle in any of the papers. Did you see anything? 
I mean, anything about whether he’s better or 
worse?” 

Now he fixed his sunken eyes on her and his fingers 
curled in his palms. “Good God! I tell you your 
mother is sick and you ask me—do you realize what 


164 And Both Were Young 

you've done to her? Have you read the morning 
papers?” 

“Of course.” 

“And you can still—” but the words would not 
come. He said hoarsely, “What kind of a girl are 
you, Lora? If you don’t care about us, have you no 
shame for yourself? Do you realize what people are 
saying about you this morning?” 

She shook her head impatiently. “Do you think I 
care what they say about me? I’m not thinking of 
myself!” and she turned and hurried back to her 
room. She did not see the involuntary lift of her 
father’s hand, never knew how close he had come 
to striking her. 

Lora went back to her bedroom and closed the 
door. She had the sense of shutting out a callous and 
hostile world and her heart was full of bitterness. 
That her parents should take it like this, that they 
could think of nothing but their own petty personal 
grievance, make her feel that she had committed a 
crime when she had done only what was proper 
and natural; what any girl would have done to save 
the man she loved! She had always thought of her 
father and mother as all that was noble and superior 
to the rest of mankind. Now they had failed her 
and her heart hardened to them. She could not think 
with tenderness even of her mother, lying there in 
the next room “very ill.” 


And Both Were Young 165 

She went and stood at the window and looked down 
on Central Park West, alive with restless cars and hur¬ 
rying people. Not since she had first gone away to 
boarding school, had she been in New York at this 
time of year; this dreary in-between time when the 
trees in the Park were still hung with the ghosts of 
last summer’s leaves and the air was still hazy with 
last summer’s dust. Up north, at Lockwood, winter 
followed swift and cleansing as a competent house¬ 
maid’s broom on summer’s heels. It had even snowed 
a little Sunday. While she was unpacking her bags 
she had noticed the slow flakes drifting past her win¬ 
dow and thought of Judd driving those two hundred 
miles back to college—back to prison with Officer 
O’Ranny beside him. 

She dropped the curtain and her eyes swung over 
the pleasant, girlish room. She had already made her 
own bed and tidied the dressing table and bureau and 
stood Judd’s picture on her little rosewood desk. 
She had said when the maid came in, “I’ll do my own 
room this morning, Lottie,” and Lottie had nodded 
and backed out in silence, her eyes wide as a scared 
kitten’s. Lora, thinking of that now and remember¬ 
ing what her father had said, thought, “I suppose 
she’s read the papers!” and lifted her chin defiantly. 
As though she cared what Lottie thought—what 
anyone thought! 

She decided to clean out her desk. That would give 


166 And Both Were Young 

her something to do. Her father had warned her not 
to go out or answer the telephone. “There may be 
reporters hanging around.” But it was hard being 
shut in here with nothing to do, nothing more to do 
now but wait. Wait for Earle to recover—or die. And 
so she cleaned out her desk. The drawers were 
cluttered with wrinkled invitations and place cards 
and silly, girlish letters from her schoolmates— 
“Darling Lora, last night at Chloe’s party I met the 
most marvellous man and is he a man, darling!”— 
“Dear Lora, You’re lucky to have a cold because 
Miss Childs has one too and they got Miss Harriss 
in to sub and she gave us all detention simply be¬ 
cause Lois tried to swallow a sneeze and we couldn’t 
help laughing honestly it was so funny—” Lora tore 
the letters up. Had they really been written to her! 
Had she ever been so young? 

At one Lottie came to say that lunch was served 
and Lora went out to the dining room. There was 
only one place set and it looked lost there on the long, 
polished table. If it had not been for Lottie waiting 
behind her chair, Lora would have gone back to her 
room. But Lottie, in her little waiting apron and 
cap and with her eyes bigger than ever, was watch¬ 
ing her and Lora smiled on her brightly and sat 
down, to her fruit cup and creamed chicken. 

It seemed to her that Lottie and perhaps even the 


And Both Were Young 167 

cook in the kitchen must hear every mouthful 
squeeze its way down her throat, the place was so 
still. It was the silence that made everything seem 
so much more dreadful for the Paris apartment was 
usually anything but silent. Always when Lora had 
been home from school the place had rung with 
young voices and reverberated with young feet. Last 
Easter Joan had spent the holidays with Lora and 
Joan’s brother and a classmate had come to New 
York for their vacation and Hay had brought a bony, 
pink-haired boy home with him. The apartment had 
been alive with happy sound—the clank of the little 
boys’ roller skates, telephone bells ringing, run¬ 
ning feet and stifled laughter and messenger boys 
coming with flowers— 

“No, thanks, I don’t believe I care for any fruit, 
Lottie.” 

She hurried back to her room, tiptoeing past her 
mother’s closed door, and lay face down on her bed. 
For the first time in her life she felt completely alone 
and friendless, shut out from everything that had 
been dear and familiar, ostracised, despised, a pariah. 
She had only Judd now. He was all her world but 
how much more wholly was he hers because of what 
he had cost her! How much more perfect and 
complete was her love now that she had discarded 
all other loves for him. No, it was not like that. It 


168 And Both Were Young 

was, rather, as though she had poured all her other 
loves and fidelities into her love for Judd, strength¬ 
ening and enriching it beyond price. 

Lying on her bed with the blurred beat of the 
city sounding against the silence of her room, these 
thoughts formed in Lora’s mind. She built them 
into a brave defense against her lonely despair until 
she had achieved a state of ecstatic martyrdom. Judd 
was in jail, she might not see him for years, but what 
of that? Love like theirs was deathless, it had al¬ 
ready survived so much, what were a few paltry 
years— 

She fell asleep, her cheek pillowed on her small 
doubled fist, her slender body lax as an exhausted 
puppy’s. And, sleeping, the fever of those weeks of 
passion and defiance and despair left her and her 
young face in its frame of sunny hair was the sweet, 
untroubled face of the picture in the paper that 
morning—Before Judd Harcott Came Into Her Life. 

She was roused by Lottie standing beside her bed 
and sat up and saw that the room was dark save for 
the faintly luminous windows. Lottie was saying, 
“Mr. Cliff Sidney is on the telephone, Miss Lora. I 
wouldn’t of woke you but he said it was very im¬ 
portant.” 

Lora was out of the room, flying down the hall, 
crying into the telephone, “Cliff! What is it? Tell 
me quick!” 


And Both Were Young 169 

"Is that you, darling? Well, I just wanted to tell 
you that everything’s okay. Judd’s out—” 

"Out! You mean—Earle’s all right!” 

"He’s doing fine—issued Judd’s reprieve like a 
little gentleman a couple of hours ago. I just left 
him—Judd, I mean. He’s gone over to the hotel 
where his folks are staying, to shave and clean up a 
bit then he’s coming to town to see you. He asked 
me to call you and date you up if you were in town. 
I tried to get you at Lockwood first—” 

"Oh, Cliff! My—my teeth are chattering! Can 
you hear them? I’m so glad! Listen, how is he—I 
mean, how does he look and act and everything?” 

"Great. Looks like old Prexy’s going to forgive all 
and take him back, too. So everything’s rosy and 
he’s swell—except he’s pretty mad about all those 
newspaper stories. He says after he’s seen you he’s 
going to beat up every editor that printed the stuff.” 

"Oh, he mustn’t do that. You tell him he can’t do 
that, Cliff. Who cares about things like that now?” 

He said, "Well, you’ve got to admit they did make 
him look like an ass. But he’s even madder about the 
things they said about you.” 

"Well, you tell him I don’t care a bit. I knew he 
wouldn’t like it much but I thought it might help in 
case Earle—in case anything happened. I thought 
they might let him off easier if I made it look as 
though it was my fault—” 


170 And Both Were Young 

“You made—wait a minute! Are you trying to tell 
me all that tripe was true? You actually said all those 
things?” 

‘‘Yes. Of course.” 

“And you let them throw you out of Lockwood?” 

“I was going to leave anyway. Truly I was, dar¬ 
ling. Stop cursing!” 

“I’m not cursing, little one. I’m moaning. I just 
pinched myself to make sure I was awake and it 
hurt.” 

“I guess it was pretty silly but I was scared to 
death that Earle might not get well and so I happened 
to think up some exterminating—I mean extenuating 
—circumstances. That’s what Judd’s mother called 
them. You see it was really her idea. I just kind of 
helped it along.” 

He said, “Judd’s mother!” in a queer voice and 
she told him how Marie had come to Lockwood 
looking for extenuating circumstances. She laughed 
as she told it for it did sound amusing, now. But 
when she asked Cliff if he didn’t think it was terribly 
funny he said, “Not particularly,” in that same queer 
voice. Then Cliff told her that Judd was taking the 
six something train to New York and Lora said 
quickly to tell him he mustn’t come to the house. 
She said that just now she couldn’t even have Judd 
come to the house and they decided that she was to 
meet him at the Plaza at eight. “That lounge place 


And Both Were Young 171 

just outside the Persian room.” Cliff said it was 
too bad things had to be like that, but in her heart 
Lora was glad. Their love had flourished in secret 
places, on dissensions and deceit. They would ask 
no favors now. They two would stand alone against 
the world— 



io 


l |/R. AND MRS. HARCOTT HAD OCCUPIED A SUITE IN 

Haverton’s best hotel, The Fieldston, during Judd’s 
incarceration. And it was here the happy reunion of 
the three took place after Judd’s release. It was 
here, with the door firmly closed against idly curious 
and well wishers alike, that Marie Harcott “gave 
way” to her overwrought emotions and sobbed out 
her heart on her tall son’s shoulder. 

A big woman crying is a dreadful thing—especially 
if she is your mother. It was a bad moment for Judd, 
and his own tears fell on her graying hair, he patted 
her shoulder awkwardly, forgot his grievances, re¬ 
membered only that she was his mother. Bailey 
Harcott, pacing up and down the room with his hands 
deep in his pockets and his face somewhat pinker 
than usual, said, “Come on, come on, now, mother. 
Cheer up—it’s all over, you know.” Then he said 
to Judd, as man to man, “Funny thing—that’s your 
mother. It’s when everything’s all over she breaks. 
That’s the way she’s always been. Come on, mother, 
got to be in shape for our dinner party—we’ve got 
to crack that bottle of champagne, you know.” 


And Both Were Young 173 

She quieted at last, bathed her face and lay down 
on the sofa. Judd said he hadn’t felt like shaving 
that morning, he’d better do it now and when he 
went into the bathroom, his mother said, “Leave the 
door ajar, darling,” in the pleading voice of a little 
girl. “I know I’m silly, but do it just to humor me.” 

So Judd, deeply moved by their forgiving attitude 
and with his soul in sackcloth and ashes, left the 
bathroom door ajar and shaved his thin cheeks—he 
had lost pounds those last three days—and wondered 
how he was going to get out of that dinner party; 
how he was to make them understand that he must see 
Lora tonight. If it was true they had thrown her out 
of college—the thought cost him a nasty cut on the 
cheek. He mustn’t think of it. Mustn’t think of any 
of it right now. He was shaky as a palsied old woman. 

He had half finished shaving when he heard Cliff 
arrive. Judd’s first impulse was to call him into the 
bathroom where they could speak together in privacy. 
But he resisted the temptation. There had been 
enough behind-doors whispering where he and Lora 
were concerned. There had to be a showdown now. 
His parents must be made to see Lora as he saw her; 
they must be made to realize that this “romance” of 
his was a serious matter. He was willing to admit that 
he’d been an impetuous fool, more than willing to 
admit that they’d been darned sporting about this 
other awful business. But if they could be big about 


174 Both Were Young 

that, they could be big about Lora, too. It was, 
of course, too bad he had to force the issue at this 
particular time. If things had been different, if it 
hadn’t been for all that stuff in the papers, he would 
have waited. But he couldn’t let Lora wait—after 
what he had done to her. He tied his cravat with 
shaking fingers and walked briskly into the sitting 
room. 

“Hi, Cliff! Been washing off the shadow of my 
prison bars,” he said, and then, loud and hearty, 
“Well, how’s Lora? Did you get her on the phone?” 

Cliff said easily, “Yup. She’s fine. Almost dropped 
dead with joy when I broke the news.” They looked 
steadily at each other, not one glance for Marie or 
Bailey Harcott. “I guess she’s been pretty worried, 
poor kid.” 

Judd jammed his hands in his pockets. “Did you 
ask her about that—is it true about that Lockwood 
business?” 

“Yup. It’s true. They let her out, all right. She’s 
home—in town.” 

“They let her out, did they?” He took his hands 
out of his pockets and looked at his watch. “You tell 
her I wanted to see her tonight?” 

“Yup. That’s okay. She said she’d meet you at 
the Plaza at eight. The lounge just inside the Fifth 
Avenue entrance.” 

“Sorry to break up that party you were talking 


And Both Were Young 175 

about,” Judd said. He was looking straight at his 
mother now. There was no bravado in his voice, only 
stern purpose. “I wish you’d postpone it until to¬ 
morrow. I’ve got to see Lora tonight.” 

Marie Harcott’s face looked stiff, a gray mask. She 
dropped her feet to the floor and sat up on the couch. 
“Would you—actually leave us— tonight —for that girl, 
Judd?” 

“Now, mother, that’s something—” Judd started 
but his father who had been standing near the win¬ 
dow had come over to the couch and he lifted his 
hand and held it, shaking a little, before Judd’s face. 

“Wait a minute—don’t say any more, Judd. I 
hadn’t meant to go into this tonight—your mother 
and I thought we’d kind of dedicate tonight to you 
—kind of celebrate and postpone any unpleasant¬ 
nesses, but since you’ve brought up the subject— 
you needn’t go, Cliff. You know as much about this 
as the rest of us, I imagine.” 

“He certainly does,” Judd said with a grim little 
smile. “He knows all about it. He knows how I feel 
about Lora and why I—” 

“Exactly. And now I want you to know how some 
other people feel. I told you I’d seen the President 
—in fact he called a special meeting of the board to 
pass on your case, Judd. I talked my head off and, 
as I told you, they’re willing to accept your apology 
and your pledge for future good behavior and re- 


176 And Both Were Young 

instate you in your class—but with one provision. 
That is that you break off with this girl. That you 
break with her finally and completely. They didn’t 
say that in so many words. They said they supposed 
they could take it for granted that your affair with 
the girl was at an end. That’s the way they feel about 
it.” 

Judd looked at him, looked at his mother. The 
fresh pink had left his newly shaven cheeks, his chin 
was trembling. “That’s the way you feel—that’s what 
you mean, isn’t it?” 

“You could hardly expect us to feel otherwise, but 
our opinion had nothing to do with their decision. 
Those newspaper stories this morning—” 

“They were lies! I told you that this morning!” 
He wagged his head hopelessly. “This would be 
funny if it weren’t so tragic. Lora Paris is the one 
those newspaper stories have hurt—she’s been thrown 
out of college because of them. Because of me, 
really. That’s why I’ve got to see her tonight. I’ve 
got to straighten this out somehow—” 

“They weren’t lies,” Marie Harcott said. Her eyes 
glittered in her gray face. “Every word attributed 
to her in those stories was true, as I happen to know 
for I was there and heard her.” 

“What? You were—there! At Lockwood! What 
did you go up there for?” 

“I went to ask the girl a few simple questions but 


And Both Were Young 177 

she refused to see me and the Dean permitted me to be 
present when they questioned her.” 

“You were there!” Judd said, standing over his 
mother, staring down at her bewildered and unbe¬ 
lieving. “You heard her say all those things about 
our—” 

“I’d no intention of telling you tonight, my dear, 
but perhaps it’s better for you to know at once.” 

Bailey Harcott said, “You can hardly blame a 
respectable university for objecting to a student be¬ 
ing mixed up with a girl like that. Oh, I admit she 
was an attractive little thing. I can understand how 
she’d have a good deal of appeal for the opposite sex, 
but now that you’ve found out what sort of girl she 
really is—” 

Judd’s loud laugh broke the words off short. He 
cried, “Wait a minute! Am I screwy or what? I tell 
you Lora couldn’t have said any of those things. 
Listen, they said she admitted we’d have run off and 
been married if I hadn’t been arrested. She couldn’t 
have said that because that’s what I wanted her to do 
and she refused. She was trying to make me come 
back—she was worried to death for fear I’d lose my 
degree. Don’t you see —” 

“If you don’t mind my butting in,” Cliff said in his 
easy, unflurried voice, “I think I can clear up this 
mystery. Lora just told me that she thought up all 
that stuff because she thought it might help Judd 


178 And Both Were Young 

—you know in the event that Earle popped off. And 
the thing came to trial. She had some cockeyed idea 
that if she took as much of the blame as she could, 
it might make Judd’s case look a little better. She’s 
pretty sick about it now, but her intentions were 
good—if a little nutty.” 

Judd simply stared stupidly at his friend but Marie 
Harcott sprang to her feet. She said, “Nutty! I never 
heard such a ridiculous story!” 

Judd said, still staring at Cliff, light and color 
flowing into his face until it was radiant, “She did— 
she said—she did that for me—God!” He turned and 
caught his mother’s hands, swung them wide. “Did 
you hear that? Didn’t I tell you they were lies—but 
that’s the sort of thing she would do! That’s like 
her—to try and take all the blame—let ’em chuck her 
out of college! Listen, did you ever hear anything so 
crazy—or so grand!” 

But she jerked her hands away, her gray face had 
turned scarlet. “It certainly is crazy—it sounds too 
crazy to be true. If it is true. I fail to see anything 
grand about it. Neither did you when you read the 
papers this morning. You said yourself they made you 
appear feeble-minded—a cad—” 

“That’s true,” Bailey Harcott said. “She’s done 
you more harm than good, if you ask me. And it 
isn’t going to help you with the college faculty. You 
can’t expect them to believe an asinine story like 
that,” 


And Both Were Young 179 

Judd looked from his father to his mother. He 
said quietly, “No. I suppose I couldn’t expect them 
to believe it. You believe it, though, don’t you? But 
it doesn’t make any difference—it doesn’t make you 
hate Lora any less, does it?” 

His mother cried, “Why shouldn’t we hate her? 
Ever since you’ve known her—from the very first day 
—she’s brought you nothing but misery!” 

“Oh, no, she hasn’t,” Judd said. “But you have— 
Oh, you haven’t meant to, I know. Your intentions 
were good—as we just said about Lora. But if you 
hadn’t hated her—if you’d tried to like her—for my 
sake—just a little, none of this would have happened.” 

“We had reason to hate her—” 

“Not at first you didn’t! You have now, though— 
I admit that. But she has plenty of reason to hate you 
too. Don’t you suppose I know now why you went up 
to Lockwood? You went up there to bully and brow¬ 
beat her into incriminating herself—” 

“I went up there to ask her a few civil ques¬ 
tions—” 

“Well, she answered them, didn’t she?” He went 
across the room and picked up his overcoat and hat 
from the chair where he had tossed them when he 
came in. “Civil questions!” he said, his white lips 
curling. “You’ve never been even that—you’ve never 
been even civil to her. You talk of what she’s done 
to me—look what I’ve done to her!” 

The secret of Marie’s hold on her two devoted 


180 And Both Were Young 

menfolks had been her freedom from pettiness, her 
reasonableness. Deep down in her heart now as she 
looked at Judd, watched him getting into his coat, 
reason was warning her to beware. But its voice was 
muffled under such a passion of resentment and 
despair and anguish that she could not have heeded 
it if she would. She looked at her tall son who had 
been the hero of every brave tale she had read since 
his birth, the star of every play, the voice of every 
singer; a better president and king than had ever 
ruled the world, and saw him turning from her for a 
sunny-haired girl he had known for a briefer time 
than he had nursed at his mother’s breast. The girl 
who had precipitated the first harsh words between 
them, who had been the cause of how many sleepless 
nights and terrible days, who had all but made a 
murderer of him. And in her desperation she flung 
down that dreadful, futile ultimatum which is the 
last card on which desperate mothers have risked 
their all since mothers and sons have been. 

“Judd, where are you going?” she said, without 
rage, the voice of a woman slowly strangling. 

“I’ve told you, I’m going to see Lora—I’ve got 
to. I can’t think of anything—can’t do anything , until 
I’ve seen her. I’m sorry you feel the way you do— 
but I’ve got to go.” 

She said, “If you do—if you go to her now—after all 
this—you need never come back to us again. I mean 


And Both Were Young 181 

that. Your father will back me up, I know. I’ve 
borne all I can bear.” 

Bailey said, “That’s right, son. Your mother’s 
right. We’ve stood more from you than most parents 
would! This whole thing—it’s got to stop. But you’d 
better think twice about it—you realize what it’ll 
mean. The college’ll let you out—I—you needn’t 
look to me for anything.” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Judd said. “I’m a man 
—not a schoolboy. Ten years from now nobody’s 
going to ask to look at my college degree. I—I’m 
sorry, I—but it’s no use talking about it any more. 
The more we talk, the messier it gets. I’ve tried to 
explain—I’ve said I’m sorry and God knows I am. 
But I’ve got to go.” 

Bailey roared, “You’d actually do it! You’d re¬ 
nounce your own mother and father for—” 

“I’m not renouncing anybody,” Judd said. “I’m 
going, that’s all.” His voice rose, he cried out, high 
and piercing, “I’m just going—that’s all!” and went. 

Eight o’clock at the Plaza! The words sang to 
Lora as she dressed. She felt so light as she went from 
dressing table to closet, to the desk to smile on Judd’s 
picture—so light! Like one of those bubbly balloons 
you buy at the circus. If you let go of it, off it floats, 
dancing and bobbing over the treetops. If she really 
let herself go, that’s what she would do—go floating 


182 And Both Were Young 

up and up, bumping her head against the ceiling— 
a silly idea, but how could she help being silly now 
that everything was all right again, now that all this 
terrible business was over? 

It was all over. Judd was free, Earle wasn’t going 
to die, none of the terrible things she had feared 
had happened. She might have known they wouldn’t. 

Men didn’t die of a sock on the nose. She felt 
sheepish when she thought back over those brief, 
dreadful three days. She had lost her head but how 
could she have helped it? And so had everyone else. 
Look at her mother—and Mrs. Harcott—but now 
they'd be all right, too. And they would know, as 
they had never known before, how useless it was for 
them to try to part true lovers! 

She put on the hand-drawn linen blouse and blue 
wool skirt of her new town suit. Judd had never 
seen her in city clothes and her new suit was the 
most grown-up, the smartest suit she’d ever had. 
There was no fur on the collar but she wore two 
little brown animals that looked like sables, with it 
and her small felt hat was very small and chic—Judd 
probably wouldn’t even recognize her at first. Dar¬ 
ling-darling— 

She unscrewed the top of her lipstick absently, 
thinking—so many thoughts—all jumbled together in 
a lovely, exciting picture. Judd graduating in June. 
Bachelor of Arts. She would go to Haver ton—she 
would see him in his cap and gown, erect and hand- 


And Both Were Young 183 

some up there on the platform receiving his diploma. 
June. It wasn’t so very long to wait—November, 
December—but November was already well launched 
and it was a short month and February was even 
shorter. Six months—well, seven, then. A June wed¬ 
ding with marguerites and dogwood—no, dogwood 
came earlier-LORA PARIS AND JUDD HAR- 
COTT WED AT SIMPLE CEREMONY- 

It was not yet seven and here she was all dressed 
and presently dinner would be announced and she 
would have to go through the motions of eating it. 
She would have to tell the family the good news 
about Judd and perhaps they wouldn’t have calmed 
down yet, which would make it hard. On the other 
hand her mother might not be well enough to come 
to the table and her father might take his dinner in 
the bedroom, too. She hoped fervently that this 
would happen. Somehow it would be so much bet¬ 
ter if she didn’t have to see anybody before she saw 
Judd. 

She decided to do a little reconnoitering—see if 
the table had been set for three. She opened her 
door softly, tiptoed as softly along the hall. And 
suddenly she heard the voices in the living room, one 
voice that thudded against her heart with such aw¬ 
ful significance that, for a moment, she could 
scarcely breathe. She stopped in the doorway and 
stood staring. There was her father standing in 
the middle of the room and on the sofa was her 


184 And Both Were Young 

mother in negligee and slippers and her hair pinned 
up in a comical uncombed knot. Beside her sat Hay, 
still in his overcoat, twirling his hat round and 
round and saying in that half-man, half-boy voice of 
his, “I don’t care! D’yuh think I was going to stand 
for ’em saying things like that about my own sister! 
Making a lot of wisecracks, standing around whisper¬ 
ing and giggling? I told ’em all that stuff in the 
papers was lies but when they didn’t pipe down I 
laid ’em out—I laid three of ’em out cold!” The 
three had not been laid out cold however without 
a struggle. Hay’s right eye was nearly closed, a 
swollen slit in a cushion of blue and green and yel¬ 
low. There was a long ragged scratch along his left 
cheek, his upper lip was twice its normal size. 
“Then old Pepper had the nerve to call me down! 
I told him they insulted my sister but all he said was 
it was unfortunate for people to get their names in 
the papers because then when people did that they 
laid themselves open to criticism. That’s all he 
cared! Then he told me to report to the headmaster 
but you can bet I didn’t. I just kept right on going 
till I got to the railroad station, that’s what I did. 
You can bet I’m not going back to that lousy school!” 

All this time Julia had not moved. She sat there 
tense and still, her underlip caught between her 
teeth. Now she said, “Did you—did you do anything 
for your eye, darling? Does it hurt much?” 


i85 


And Both Were Young 

“Naw! It don’t hurt at all.” 

“I think I’d better get the witch hazel—” 

But Lora cried, “I’ll get it!” and flew to the bath¬ 
room and grabbed the bottle and cotton off the 
shelf. When she turned around she found her 
mother behind her. 

Julia said, “Give it to me!” and snatched it and 
ran back to the living room. 

Hay said, “Aw, don’t make such a fuss over noth¬ 
ing,” and glanced up and spied Lora, standing again 
in the doorway. “Hi, sis!” 

“Hello, darling.” She came in, stood beside the 
couch. “Wouldn’t raw beef be better? I can ask 
Mary-” 

But her mother ignored her, held out a piece of 
soaked cotton to Hay. “Hold this against your eye, 
dear—here, let me help you take off your coat first.” 

“Aw-w—” But he took off his coat and plastered 
the wet cotton over his eye while his mother bathed 
the scratched cheek. 

“How—how did you find your way home from 
the station, darling?” 

“I just took a taxi—I was a little short so I borrowed 
the fare from the doorman. Will you pay him back, 
mum?” 

“I will, dear,” Lora said and reached out to smooth 
down his mussed hair. 

Quick and savage as an angry cat, Julia lifted her 


186 And Both Were Young 

hand and struck Lora’s away. “Keep your hands off 
him? Haven’t you done enough?” 

George who had not spoken spoke now. “Better go 
back to your room, Lora,” he said and Lora turned 
and hurried out. 

She hurried down the hall to her room, closed the 
door and stood with her back against it still seeing 
her brother’s battered face, still feeling the sting of 
her mother’s hand. Presently she heard footsteps 
up and down the hall, heard sounds from Hay’s 
room. Evidently he was being put to bed—“Aw, I 
don’t wanna go to bed! I’m all right! What’s a 
black eye?” Lora heard her father’s, “Now, do as 
your mother says, old man,” and, a little later there 
was the clink of dishes. Hay was having his dinner 
in bed. 

The little clock on her dresser said seven-fifteen, 
seven-thirty, a quarter to eight. No dinner gong had 
sounded. The murmur of her parents’ voices came 
from their own room now. Lora went to the dress¬ 
ing table and repowdered her nose. She thought, 
“I mustn’t forget to pay the doorman.” She brushed 
her hair and put on her coat and hat and the near¬ 
sables. She did all this hurriedly, stealthily, for of a 
sudden there was a new and shapeless terror at her 
heart. She dared not let it take definite form. If 
she did, she would never get to Judd because the 
thing she was afraid of now was herself! Some new- 


And Both Were Young 187 

born part of herself that was heartsick and weary 
and ashamed and, at the same time, very old and 
calm. And that new part of her didn't want to go to 
meet Judd! It just wanted to lie down and cry and 
cry and cry— 

But that was absurd and cowardly. She whipped 
up her flagging ecstasy—ecstasy and deep despair and 
reckless courage—these were the things on which 
her love had flourished. She grabbed up her gloves 
and purse and opened the door, turning the knob 
very /softly—and found herself looking into her 
father’s face. 

His hand had been lifted to knock, he dropped it 
and said, “I was just coming in to speak—” and 
stopped, his eyes swinging over her. “Were you go¬ 
ing out?” 

“Yes. I—just for a little while.” 

Julia had heard. She was beside her husband in 
an instant. She was still in her negligee, the comical 
knot of hair had come unloosed, her eyes and cheeks 
were red and bloated with crying. She said in a 
voice kept low on Hay’s account and more terrible 
than a scream, “Where! Ask her where she was 
going!” 

“I’m going to meet Judd. He’s out—of jail—I was 
going to tell you later. He’s all right—Earle’s all 
right—” 

“I knew it!” Julia said, still in that terrible re- 


188 And Both Were Young 

pressed voice. “She’d go—even now—even now —” 
George flung an arm around her shoulder and 
pushed her gently into Lora’s room, Lora made 
way for her, George followed and closed the door. 
Lora said, “I wasn’t going to mention it—I was afraid 
you wouldn’t want to hear about it right now—but 
Judd’s coming into town specially to see me. It’s 
only for a little while—he’s going back to college— 
they’re taking him back, you know, so everything’s 
all right. But I have to go—” 

“Perhaps you don’t know,” George said, “that 
your brother has run away from school. Perhaps 
you don’t know how he acquired his interesting 
wounds.” 

“Do you think she cares! Do you think she cares 
about him—about any of us!” 

“I do care! I—I’m terribly sorry, Mother. But 
don’t you see, everything’s going to be all right now, 
mother. Don’t you see, everything—” 

“You think so, do you?” her father said, a man 
controlling himself at tremendous cost. “Every¬ 
thing’s all right! You can look at your mother, 
there—and your brother—and say that? You’ve got 
yourself kicked out of college, made us ashamed 
to look our friends in the face. You know how that 
boy’s parents have slandered and insulted us, you 
know how they hate you—they’d rather see Judd 
dead than married to you and yet you’ll put on your 


And Both Were Young 189 

best clothes and trot merrily out to meet him—” 

“No! Dad, listen, please!” 

“Well, you’re not going. You’re not going to 
meet that boy tonight or any other night, if I have 
to gag and tie you hand and foot and strap you to 
the bedpost! That’s the way lunatics are treated— 
that’s the way I should have treated you long ago and 
I wish to God I had!” Julia covered her face with 
her hands and Lora shrank fearfully back from the 
man who had been her kindly father. He advanced 
upon her, his face savage with fury. “Are you really 
so blind as to believe that things can ever be all right 
for you and that boy again?” 

He stopped, breathing hard and loud, when he 
was almost upon her and Lora, feeling the dressing 
table behind her, leaned against it. She was a little 
faint and sick but not too sick to marvel that her 
father should have worded that new terror of hers 
so accurately. For she had known after she had seen 
Hay sitting there all battered up, that things could 
not be all right between her and Judd. Things can¬ 
not be all right with two people when they are all 
wrong with the rest of their world. The pattern of 
life was too closely woven. You could not take away 
two single threads without unravelling the whole. 

“Now,” George said, “am I going to have to use 
force or will you stay of your own free will?” 

She nodded quickly so that he would not say any 


190 And Both Were Young 

more while she was trying to find the strength to 
speak. And, after a little, she said, “Ill stay—I won’t 
go. I’ll stay.” 

She saw her mother’s head droop lower and her 
father said, “Good. Someday when you’re older— 
when you’ve recovered your senses, you’ll thank us 
for this.” 

She nodded again and lifted the little blue hat 
off her head. “Yes.” 

“And so will Judd Harcott. You can bet if his 
folks knew he was planning to meet you tonight 
they’d rather have kept him in jail.” 

“Yes. But—I ought to let him know—he’s waiting 
there. He’ll be terribly worried—he won’t know 
what to think—” 

“Well, when he gets worried enough, he’ll prob¬ 
ably call up.” He looked steadily into her white face. 
“If he does, what shall I say? That if he doesn’t keep 
away from you he’ll get shot or that you just don’t 
want to see him.” 

She considered this, holding hard to the edge of 
the dressing table. It must be something final, some¬ 
thing from which there would be no appeal, some¬ 
thing that wouldn’t leave any ends hanging out for 
him to cling to. He had to be made to see now that 
there wasn’t any use. “Tell him,” she said slowly, 
“that it just isn’t any use. Tell him I said to go home 
and forget me because—it just isn’t—any use.” 




V—^ OR A LITTLE WHILE JUDD WAITED OUTSIDE THE 

main entrance to the Plaza, watching every cab as it 
drew into the curb, with his heart in his mouth. 
But the chill of the November night soon forced 
him inside where he stood for the next fifteen minutes 
with his eyes glued to the revolving doors. At 
twenty past eight he left his post for a hasty search 
of the two side entrances then dashed back to the 
main lounge, fearful that Lora had arrived in his 
absence. At eight-twenty-five he sat down on a 
broad sofa from which he could see the door. He had 
eaten nothing for hours and the strain of the past few 
days seemed to be showing up in his knees. He 
told himself he was silly to worry about Lora. He 
could hardly expect her to be punctual at this hour, 
with theater traffic congesting the streets. Then, too, 
she might easily have understood Cliff to say half 
past eight. 

He relaxed in spite of himself, lit a cigarette. It 
seemed odd to be sitting here alone in a hotel lounge, 
not having to worry about classes or trains, only a 
few dollars in his pocket and little more in the bank. 


192 And Both Were Young 

not even knowing where he was going to sleep to¬ 
night. He hadn’t thought of this before—had de¬ 
liberately closed his mind—as he had closed that door 
two hours ago—to every thought but Lora. After 
he had seen Lora, he could concentrate on the future. 
She had been part of that future for a long time, 
now she was all of it. As he, very likely, was all of 
hers. Her parents were no doubt as furious, as far 
from understanding, as his. Now they would have 
only each other; alone together they would face the 
world. 

The thought was as stirring as an old martial tune 
and Judd’s shoulders squared to it. He would show 
them! But coolly, now, sensibly. He had learned 
his lesson. He would get a job—some minor post in 
a bank, perhaps, where he could work himself up 
—then he and Lora would be married. They would 
have a quiet wedding to which, of course, he would 
invite his parents. They probably would refuse to 
come but, after a while, after they had cooled off, 
saw he was getting along all right, they’d come 
round. 

He would be glad when that time came. It gave a 
man a nasty feeling to be on the outs with his own 
father and mother. He hoped that in his anger he 
had said nothing too bitter, too irrevocable. He 
wished they had understood things better. It would 
be fine if someone would invent a kind of television 


And Both Were Young 193 

contraption that would take a picture of a man’s 
thoughts. That would save a lot of trouble and mis¬ 
understanding—if people could look into your mind 
and see the truth. 

A man sitting on the other end of the sofa let out a 
grunt and Judd glanced at him. He was a round, 
pink, well-fed, overdressed little man and he re¬ 
marked companionably to Judd, “See they’ve let that 
college boy off—that young Harcott who beat up his 
pal in that brawl.” 

Judd said gravely, “Is that so?” 

“Yeah. The guy he socked is out of danger.” He 
laid the paper on his knee and wagged his head at 
Judd, “But that’s just his good luck. Might just 
as easy of died and landed this Harcott boy in prison 
for manslaughter or whatever they call it. And that’s 
all the good this higher education would of done 
him .” 

Judd glanced at the door and back at the fat man. 
“I take it you don’t approve of the higher educa- 

, • yy 

tion. 

“You said it, I don’t. It’s not normal for a grown 
man to go to school, fool around with books and 
things. The best school is life, I always say. You 
can learn more from life in one year than you can at 
any college in four. And what you learn’ll be of 
some use to you.” The massive diamond on his 
plump, pink hand glittered as he waved it to em- 


194 And Both Were Young 

phasize his thesis. “A grown man needs responsibili¬ 
ties. I was earning my own way when I was eleven 
—selling papers, sweeping sidewalks—any odd job 
I could get. Now look at me.” Judd looked and 
the fat man said: “Now, I’m president of the biggest 
paper company in the United States with more’n 
four thousand men under me—a lot of ’em college 
graduates, too! That’s what not going to college did 
for me.” 

“Well, that’s fine,” Judd said, trying to think of 
the name of the biggest paper company in the United 
States and wondering if, perhaps, the fat man’s name 
wasn’t Fate and if paper might not offer a better 
future than a bank teller’s cage. He said warmly, “I 
wouldn’t be surprised but what you’re right,” con¬ 
sidering in his mind how he could approach the fat 
man on the subject of a job. That would be a joke, 
if right here and now before Lora even arrived— 

“You bet I’m right! Take this Harcott boy, for 
instance. Look at his record—chasing after that little 
gold digger, mixed up in drunken brawls, being 
chucked into jail—what good has college done him? 
It’s ruined him, that’s what! His goose is cooked.” 

Judd said, “Oh, I don’t know about that—” 

“Sure it is! What’s he going to do for a living 
when he gets through up there? Who’d want a 
man like that working for him? No sirree, his goose 
is cooked.” 


And Both Were Young 195 

Judd repeated that he didn’t know about that, a 
little belligerently this time, and excused himself 
and got up. He glanced at his watch, saw that it 
was twenty to nine and went hurrying across the 
lounge toward the telephone booths. 

George Paris delivered Lora’s message to Judd 
very clearly and evenly and Judd understood the 
words perfectly. But he appeared not to have under¬ 
stood at all, said he was afraid there must be some 
mistake, that Lora had agreed to meet him at eight 
and hadn’t come. He said the only reason he hadn’t 
come to the house for Lora was because they both 
realized he wouldn’t be very welcome right now. He 
said he could understand that— 

“But I’m afraid you don't understand me,” 
George said. He knew it was his right as an outraged 
father and grossly wronged man, to hang up on that 
contrite, importunate voice. But he remembered the 
long-legged, honest-eyed, courteous boy of last sum¬ 
mer and couldn’t bring himself to do it. “I’ve given 
you Lora’s message,” he said, “exactly as she gave it 
to me. I think she’s made a very sensible decision— 
for both of you—” 

“But, just a minute, Mr. Paris, I don’t blame you 
for feeling—” 

“Now, get this, Judd!” George said firm and loud, 
“Lora doesn’t want to see you—tonight or ever!” and 
then he did hang up. 


196 And Both Were Young 

Judd hung up, too, and sat, still as death, in the 
small close telephone booth. It was the sight of a 
pretty girl all orchids and satin and slim bare shoul¬ 
ders, staring at him through the glass and jiggling 
her nickel in an impatient palm, that got him up 
and out of the booth. There were other pretty 
girls and men in evening clothes checking their 
things at the hat check counter opposite the booth, 
looking happy and festive. Someone in the Persian 
Room was singing—“Blue moon, you saw me standing 
alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love 
of my own—” 

Judd went across the lounge, walking very straight 
and slow, a little frown between his eyes. He stopped 
beside an empty chair—one of those enormous, or¬ 
nate, throne-like affairs peculiar to hotel lounges— 
and rested his hand on its carved back. He was not, 
at the moment, conscious of any emotion, any sensa¬ 
tion save a terrible conspicuousness, standing there 
alone beside that ridiculous chair with people mill¬ 
ing all about him. He felt as though he were seven 
feet tall with a spotlight focused square on his face 
and he couldn’t do anything about it because he 
couldn’t think what to do or where to go—couldn’t 
have gone anyway for his knees were like melted but¬ 
ter and his empty stomach writhing with nausea. 

He closed his eyes and opened them, set his teeth 
and hung hard to the big chair. The thing to do 


And Both Were Young 197 

was to get somewhere where he could be alone, 
think what to do next. In the meantime, look inter¬ 
ested, pretend you were waiting for somebody who 
was late, maybe—he ought to be able to do that. That 
was what he had been doing ever since eight o’clock. 

He was suddenly aware of the swirl of long skirts 
near him, a fugitive hint of perfume and found 
little golden-haired, blue-eyed Hannah Vines beside 
him. She said, “Judd! I thought it was you, dar¬ 
ling!” 

His fingers tightened on the chairback. He said 
loudly, “Well, well, if it isn’t little Hannah!” 

“Darling, where did you come from?” 

“What? Who, me? I just got out of jail—didn’t 
you know?” 

“I wasn’t sure. The paper didn’t say you were 
actually out, darling! Isn’t it marvelous?—I suppose 
Earle’s all right. I nearly died when I heard—I’ve 
always loathed that man. And to think of them 
putting you in jail!” 

“Behind the bars,” he said, “like this!” and stooped 
and grinned at her through the carved chairback. 
“I bet I’m the only man you know with a prison 
record.” 

She laughed and put her hand on his arm. “You 
are not! Judd, listen. I’m with some people—we’re 
just going into the Persian Room for dinner. Come 
on with us and tell us all about it.” 


198 And Both Were Young 

“Sorry, darling, but I—I’ve got a date. I’m cele¬ 
brating my freedom—” 

“Well, celebrate with us. Come on! You look 
hungry—you look frightful—” 

“That’s one thing you can say for our jails,” he 
said. “They set a grand table—nothing fancy, you 
understand, but good home cooking—” 

“Idiot!” she said and shook his arm playfully 
and stood a little closer to him. “Judd, I’m dying 
to talk to you and I may not see you again. I’m 
sailing for France Wednesday—and that’s something 
else! Who do you think is sailing on the same ship?” 

His fingers were numb on the chair, he couldn’t 
hang on much longer. “I give up, darling; I’m no 
good at guessing. Who?” 

“The Parises—Lora and her mother and brother.” 

He took hold of the chair with the other hand, 
too, now, and leaned to her. “They are? Sailing— 
for France?” 

“I rather thought you wouldn’t know—I just this 
minute heard about it myself. I ran into Geordie 
Fields and he told me. I wasn’t specially surprised 
—I mean, I rather imagined that you and Lora- 
well, that that was all over now!” 

“Smart girl!” he said. 

“Geordie said—you know he’s something pretty 
important at the French Line—he said Mr. Paris 
called him up at his house tonight and asked him if 


And Both Were Young 199 

he’d personally attend to the reservations and keep 
their name off the sailing list.” 

Judd said, “That’s a good idea—keeping their 
names off the sailing list. I guess they’ve had about 
as much publicity as they can stand.” 

She said, slowly wagging her smooth yellow head 
at him. “You mustn’t let it get you down, darling. 
I can see you are down—you look awful, darling— 
but you mustn’t. No one blames you. Everybody 
who knows you, just feels terribly sorry for you—” 

“That’s nice,” he said quickly, grinning at her. 
“That’s a real comfort. I’d like to stay and hear more 
but I’ve got to go—good-by, darling. Have a nice 
trip—” 

It was so abrupt that she was staring at his broad, 
flat back before she could answer. She watched him 
go, her pretty mouth hardening. He was walking 
straight enough but she was pretty sure he was drunk. 
She had to think him either drunk or inexcusably 
rude and it would be inconvenient—with her friends 
undoubtedly watching her from across the lounge— 
to admit that he had been rude. It would be better 
to tell them frankly that he was drunk—“Tight as a 
lord, my dear!” 

The clerk at the desk thought Judd was tight, too. 
Judd had suddenly found himself facing the desk 
and the sight of it with all the little numbered mail 


200 And Both Were Young 

boxes behind it, roused him to his most immediate 
need. He walked over to it and demanded a room 
for the night. The clerk saw that the tall, good- 
looking, pale young man was tight and without 
visible luggage. But he also saw that his clothes 
were expensive and well made, that he was a gentle¬ 
man, and decided to risk it. 

Judd reached his room not a moment too soon. 
For the first time in his life, he was actively and 
violently seasick. After a little while he dragged 
himself to the bed and lay down. His head ached 
intolerably and for a time the physical pain served 
as an anaesthesia against the sharper agonies of his 
spirit. But inevitably that lifted, leaving his mind 
clear as a polished mirror, reflecting the facts as 
ruthlessly. 

It was perhaps the first time in months that Judd 
had had a clear perspective of himself and his condi¬ 
tion; the first time in months his thoughts had not 
been stewing and smoking in some emotional brew. 
He was calm enough now, calm as death itself. Lora 
had gone. That, as little Hannah had said, was “all 
over.” It did not occur to him to question the 
finality of her message. He had known when he had 
left the telephone booth that it was final. Finished. 
It was almost as though he had been expecting it. 
It seemed to him now that he had been expecting it, 
as though he had known all along that the thing these 


And Both Were Young 201 

feverish months had established between him and 
Lora was too tense and fierce and violent a thing to 
endure. You couldn’t sail through life on a Roman 
candle. 

There might, he thought, have been something 
else for them, something strong and quiet and deep. 
Lasting. In the beginning they had had that. But 
they had killed it. They had run it out of breath. 
So what? So Lora was through—little Lora without 
the U. Last summer he had been unable to bear 
the thought of leaving her even for a few weeks, of 
putting even a few miles between them. Now she 
was gone forever and presently she would have put 
three thousand miles between them. Well, that was 
sensible of her. He wished he could put three thou¬ 
sand miles between him and himself. But here he 
was with no Lora, no family, no college, no job, hung 
high and dry in “the wrecks of matter and the crush 
of worlds!” “Crash” of worlds old Addison should 
have said. Maybe he’d meant crash. 

Funny he should think of Addison. That was the 
higher education as the fat man had called it. “His 
goose is cooked,” the fat man had said. Judd rolled 
over and lay on his face and remembered that last 
night he had slept in a cell not knowing whether 
Earle was alive or dead. The bunk had been too 
short, he’d had to sleep with his knees drawn up as 
he always did in the Reckless. But he hadn’t minded 


202 And Both Were Young 

on the Reckless . He’d better sell his interest in the 
Reckless back to Cliff. He’d need the money. And 
he’d better telegraph Cliff to bring in his things. 
He didn’t even have a pair of pajamas. Fancy sleep¬ 
ing at a ritzy hotel in your underdrawers— 

Cliff arrived at nine the next morning with Judd’s 
bags. He took a look at his friend and ordered up 
breakfast. Judd lay in bed, his bare, muscular arms 
clasped under his head for why, he said, should he 
get up when there was nothing to get up for. No 
classes, no dates, no anything. “In me,” he said, “you 
see that mythical character—a free man.” He pro¬ 
tested that he was not hungry but he propped him¬ 
self up and sipped coffee and told Cliff about Lora. 

Cliff listened, being careful not to look at his 
friend’s face, painstakingly spreading marmalade on 
his toast. He had had to cut two classes in Judd’s 
behalf this morning, a hundred memories and regrets 
were making the interview one of the saddest he 
had ever known, but his thin, pleasant face was ex¬ 
pressionless as Judd’s voice, telling his friend that 
Lora had ditched him, that he didn’t blame her, 
that that was that. 

When he had finished, Cliff said the usual things. 
He said he supposed the Parises were pretty sore. 
“But they’ll get over it, give ’em time.” 

Judd said, “No, they won’t get over it. It isn’t 


And Both Were Young 203 

only the old folks, it’s Lora. She’s had enough. By 
the way, you don’t want to buy back my interest 
in the Reckless , do you?” 

Cliff got up and walked to the window and looked 
down on the city ten stories below. For a change 
the sun was shining, patches of green gave a specious 
summer look to the Park, the streets were alive with 
brisk, normal-appearing human beings moving nor¬ 
mally about their affairs. Cliff turned resentfully 
from the sight. He said, “Look here, Judd, your 
family’s still at the Fieldston. I understand they’re 
not leaving for Cleveland until late today. Now that 
this other business has fallen through, why don’t 
you come on back, finish up the year—” 

“Are you kidding?” Judd said. “Or have I been 
overrating your intelligence all these years?” 

“Don’t be a sap. Why shouldn’t you come back? 
You’ve heard that one about cutting off your own 
nose to spite your face, haven’t you?” 

“Yeah, but it doesn’t apply. My nose is already 
gone—to say nothing of my face. Wouldn’t I make 
one hell of a little college boy now—an old jailbird 
like me!” He sat straight up in bed and looked stead¬ 
ily at Cliff leaning on the footboard. “And don’t talk 
about ‘my family.’ I haven’t any family. You forget 
they've ‘renounced’ me. And when your parents 
renounce you that makes you an orphan.” 

“Now you’re talking like a damn fool.” 


204 dnd Both Were Young 

“Orphan,” Judd said. “Don’t forget that. You 
can bet I wont!” 

Cliff said, “Well, what are you going to do?” 

“That’s the question. I haven’t made up my mind 
yet whether I’ll run for President or take up danc¬ 
ing. My record makes me pretty good political mate¬ 
rial, don’t you think? And besides, there’s my gift 
for diplomacy—” 

“Shut up!” Cliff shouted. “You make me sick.” 

“Don’t you suppose I know that!” Judd said. 
Sitting bolt upright there in the middle of the bed 
with his white, sunken cheeks and his mouth 
stretched in a broad grin, he looked like a grinning 
skull. “Listen, did you ever wonder why worms 
crawl under things? It’s because they know it makes 
people sick to look at ’em.” He thrust out his hand. 
“Go on back to school, old boy. And thanks for 
everything. Sorry to have dragged you through all 
this-” 

“Skip it. What about the rest of your stuff—and 
your trunk? Where’ll I get in touch with you?” 

“I’ll give you a ring one of these days,” Judd said, 
meaning it, not knowing that he never would. 


afiier 12 

V^HE DECK STEWARD SAID GOOD MORNING AND 

he was glad to see her on deck again—though he had 
not seen her on deck at all—and tucked Lora’s 
rug around her feet. After which he bustled off 
to perform the same service for another passenger 
and Lora dipped her chin into her fur collar and 
leaned back in her chair. There was a severe-looking 
middle-aged lady on her left reading “Mind Versus 
Soul” and, two chairs down, a plump man asleep 
with his mouth open. Julia’s and Hay’s chairs were 
empty. Hay, no doubt, was off playing shuffleboard 
and Julia was writing letters inside. A few passen¬ 
gers were walking briskly about the deck but most 
of them were in their chairs, huddled under their 
rugs, lumpy sausages all in a row. The sea was 
smooth as ice and looked as cold; a cold and lonely 
waste of blue water and blue sky. 

It was the first time she had been on deck since 
she had said good-by to New York. She had stood 
at the rail on the boat deck between her mother and 
Hay. Julia had been looking down at George’s face 
in the press of faces along the pier. She had held 



205 


206 And Both Were Young 

one hand doubled against her mouth while she waved 
the other and the tears poured down her cheeks in a 
steady stream. 

Lora only remembered that afterwards—her moth¬ 
er’s tears and Hay’s excitement and the tumult of 
sounds all about her. At the time she had been con¬ 
scious of only one thing—of the slow receding of 
the city. It, and not the ship, seemed to be moving, 
to be withdrawing slowly into some irrecoverable 
past. Then it was gone and the next thing she knew 
she was lying on her bed in the stateroom she shared 
with her mother and a jolly, pink-cheeked man was 
assuring Julia that there was no cause for alarm; 
that it was not at all unusual for people to faint 
from excitement—especially young people. And he 
grinned down at Lora and asked her, “How do 
you feel now, sister? Okay, eh?” 

Lora had nodded her head and smiled at her 
mother and at Hay who looked scared to death with 
his mouth and eyes wide open. She had never fainted 
before, thought only mid-Victorian ladies did any¬ 
thing so silly. 

The doctor had advised her mother to keep her 
in bed the first day or two and feed her up. She 
struck him as being half starved, he said. And he 
said excitement did that, too—took away people’s 
appetites. He left some medicine to make her hun¬ 
gry, and for two days Lora had eaten and slept as 


And Both Were Young 207 

much as she could. Her mother uttered no word of 
reproach, she had been composed and cheery, more 
like her normal self than Lora had seen her in a 
long time. She had spent a good part of the day 
in the stateroom reading and talking to her child, 
planning what they would do in Paris. 

“I think you’ll love it, dear. Goodness, I haven’t 
been there since you were eight—you remember 
when you and Hay stayed with Grandma Perkins? 
I studied a book called ‘French Before Breakfast’ 
all the way across, I remember. I wish I had it now 
—what is French for ‘Will you direct me to the 
Louvre?’ or wherever we happen to be going?” 

Hay heard this and said stoutly, “I don’t want to 
go to any old Louvre. I want to see the sewers—you 
know where Jean Valjean went when old Javert 
was after him?” and Lora and her mother had 
laughed together. 

But this morning Julia had come back from the 
library where she had gone to get Lora a book and 
Lora saw that something had happened. Her moth¬ 
er’s cheeks were bright pink, her voice jerky and 
shrill. “Who do you think is on board?” she said. 
“Hannah Vines and her mother—I just ran into them 
in the library.” 

Lora sat up in bed! “Hannah! Well, that—that’s 
funny, isn’t it? Are they going to Paris, too?” 

“I don’t know—they didn’t say.” Julia turned to 


208 And Both Were Young 

the dressing table, began to move the toilet articles 
about. “They didn’t say much of anything.” 

Lora sat, hugging her knees, staring straight before 
her, her white face going slowly crimson. “You— 
you mean they snubbed you?” 

“Mrs. Vines made it pretty plain that she wasn’t 
exactly pleased to see me,” Julia said. She laughed 
a little, picked up her powder puff and laid it down. 
“Of course, Mrs. Vines and I have never been very 
intimate—still, you would think she had known us 
well enough to—give us the benefit of the doubt— 
but I guess that’s a little too much to expect.” 

Yes, that was, perhaps, a little too much to expect. 
Headlines were pretty impressive things. Lora said 
in a low, shamed voice, “I’m sorry, mother.” 

“It’s too bad. I’d hoped—there are so few people 
traveling this time of year—” She turned and looked 
at Lora for the first time. “Since they are on board, 
we’ll have to make the best of it. I think—as soon 
as you feel you can—that if you could get up, go 
out on deck and come down to the dining salon, it 
would look better, Lora. If you stay down here, it 
will look as though you were afraid to—it’s an admis¬ 
sion of guilt, my dear. I mean, if you could mingle 
a little with the other passengers—there are some 
nice-looking young people on board—men and girls, 
too.” 

She did not say, “This is the least you can do for 


And Both Were Young 209 

me. You have already brought such shame and 
sorrow into my life as I never dreamed of and it is 
on your account that I have had to leave my husband, 
my home, disrupt my life and run away like a crim¬ 
inal.” 

She did not say these things, but Lora heard them 
all the same and the burden of her humiliation was 
almost more than she could bear. She said, “I was 
going to get up today. I feel loads better—I feel fine, 
really,” and flung off the bedclothes and stood up 
as she said it. “It looks like a lovely day, too—” 

She sat now with her eyes on the empty sea. When 
anyone passed her, she dropped her lids and did 
not lift them again until the footsteps had passed 
her chair. She thought she would die if she were 
to see Hannah, she thought she would die if anyone 
spoke to her. And, suddenly, from halfway down 
the deck, Hay’s voice hailed her. “Hi, sis!” and the 
somnolent sausages stirred in their rugs at the sound 
of that raspy, adolescent voice. 

Lora looked and waved and then her heart began 
to thump. Hay had a young man in tow; a tall, 
darkish young man in tweeds. The two of them 
stopped beside Lora’s chair and Hay said, legs apart, 
eyes triumphant, “Meet my friend, Oliver Hard. 
This is my sister, Lora, Ollie!” and stood back, 
pleased and hopeful as a nice dog bringing his best 
bone to his master’s feet. 


210 


And Both Were Young 

Lora smiled and said “How do you do?” and the 
young man said, “How are you this morning? Feel¬ 
ing better?” 

“Yes, thank you. I’m fine.” 

“Good for you! Hay here has been bringing me 
hourly bulletins of your condition. Fve been wor¬ 
ried about you.” 

Hay said, elaborately casual, “Well, anyone’s likely 
to be seasick.” 

“That’s true—if they don’t happen to know about 
my cure,” Hay’s friend said. “Maybe you won’t 
believe it but I’ve got a cure for mal de mer that is 
absolutely infallible.” 

He said it gravely but his dark eyes twinkled at 
her from under the visor of his cap. They were 
merry, slightly mocking eyes that looked as though 
they had seen a good deal of the world, especially by 
night. “Have you?” Lora said, trying to look inter¬ 
ested. “What is it?” 

“Something I invented myself once in a very 
acute emergency. I’m going to have one made up 
for you.” 

“No, please-” 

“Now, don’t move—where’s that steward—don’t 
you budge and in ten minutes if you don’t feel like 
swimming to France, I’ll drink one myself.” 

He hurried off in search of the steward and Hay 
leaned over his sister. “Look, isn’t he a swell guy? 


211 


And Both Were Young" 

We’ve been playing deck tennis and he said he 
was dying to meet you and I told him you were sea¬ 
sick and he told me about this drink he made up and 
said he wished you’d try it. Listen, don’t you think 
he’s a swell-looking guy? Almost as swell-looking as 
—I mean, I think he’s a prince, don’t you?” 

“I—I think he must be, darling.” 

“He’s been crazy to meet you. He asked me about 
you yesterday. He said he heard I had a swell sister 
on board and I thought maybe if you could—I 
thought maybe he’d kind of cheer you up—” 

He broke off for Mr. Hard was back with the 
steward in tow and the steward was carrying a long 
stemmed glass on a little tray. Hay thumped his 
leg and announced loudly, “Well, I’ll have to be 
stepping. I got a date to play shuffleboard with a 
guy,” and swaggered off. 

“Now, the way we do this,” said Ollie Hard, 
“is drink her straight down. No toying with the 
thing, you understand. When I say three, down she 
goes. One, two—” 

At three, Lora swallowed the infallible cure for 
mal de mer. It was rather sweetish and smooth but 
it tore through her throat like a red hot poker. She 
coughed and blinked and Mr. Hard said, “Good girl! 
How was it?” 

“Terribly hot—but it does feel good now it’s 
down—” 


212 And Both Were Young 

'‘You wait. You don’t know the half of it yet.” 

He sat down on the footrest of her mother’s empty 
chair and pushed a well-worn little button in his 
mind marked Harmless Babble for Doubtful Pros¬ 
pects for he had no intention of committing him¬ 
self for the duration of the voyage to this unique 
acquaintance. He was a young man of rich social 
experience and, consequently, wary. But he had 
been curious to see this girl for rumor had it that 
she was a dangerous young person, a lovely menace 
to his sex, a woeful trial to her respectable parents. 
In short, a little devil! 

All this had sounded very promising indeed, but 
he was disappointed. She didn’t look at all like her 
reputation. She was no beauty and she was appall¬ 
ingly young, in addition to which she looked half 
dead with those woebegone gray-green eyes, her 
unrouged mouth drooping. Still she had been ill 
and now that his cure was bringing some color into 
her cheeks, he could see that she was pretty in a 
childish, unsophisticated way. 

“So they’re shipping me over to take this other 
fellow’s place with the company,” he said. “And 
there I’ll be, marooned down there in this God-for¬ 
saken French village three thousand miles from a 
good Martini.” 

“You can always fall back on your cure,” Lora 
said, doing her best to live up to Hay’s swell guy. 


And Both JVere Young 213 

“It’s terribly potent. I can feel it all the way down 
to my toes.” 

He gave her a sharp glance. “Maybe you’d better 
get up and move around a bit,” he said and flipped 
off her steamer rug. “Come along.” 

She stood up. She did feel queer but pleasantly 
so and she was grateful to this strange young man. 
She smiled up at him to show him she was grateful and 
he drew her hand under his arm and gave it a little 
squeeze and they swung down the deck. 

“It was horrid of Hay to dump me on you this 
way.” 

“Dump nothing. I’ve been all of a dither to meet 
you.” 

Lora smiled at him again. She felt a little as 
though she were on roller skates, with the steamer 
chairs and the sea flowing smoothly past her on either 
side and the fresh wind in her face. “I begin to 
think you were right about that cure of yours,” she 
said as they rounded the ship’s bow. 

“Sure I was right—hold tight, darling, traffic’s get¬ 
ting congested.” 

She had lowered her head against the wind, but 
now she glanced up and saw two girls coming, Han¬ 
nah Vines and a pretty, dark girl she did not know, 
swinging along arm in arm. The thing she had 
dreaded was about to happen and, thanks no doubt 
to Ollie’s cure and his friendly presence, she didn’t 


214 And Both Were Young 

mind at all. She was glad to see Hannah. After all, 
Hannah was her old friend. She told her new friend 
excitedly, “I know that girl—the blonde one. She’s 
an old friend of mine.” 

“Is she!” he said and planted himself in the mid¬ 
dle of the deck and stretched out his arm. “Red 
light, ladies!” 

Lora said, “Hannah! Hello, darling!” 

Hannah stopped, a charming picture of Lady on 
Shipboard in her smart brown tailleur, pale blonde 
hair coiled smooth under her close little hat. “Oh, 
hello!” she said and her blue eyes brushed Lora’s 
and lifted to Ollie Hard’s. “Hel-/o/ Aren’t you 
energetic this morning?” 

Lora dropped the hand she had held out to Han¬ 
nah and managed to keep her smile in order. “So 
you two know each other?” 

“Oh, our friendship dates from way back,” Ollie 
said. “Let’s see, was it the Statue of Liberty or the 
pilot ship?” 

“I never can remember dates,” Hannah said. 

“Mother told me you were on board,” Lora said. 
“Isn’t it funny we should be crossing on the same 
ship?” 

Now those blue eyes swung to her, cold under 
their raised brows. “Isn’t it? You must have de¬ 
cided to sail rather suddenly, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, we—I—it was pretty sudden.” 


And Both Were Young 215 

It must have been. I happened to hear about it 
a couple of nights before we sailed when I ran into 
Judd Harcott.” She gave a little laugh. “He was 
absolutely tight—said he was out celebrating his 
freedom.” 

She laughed as she said it and wagged her head 
as though deploring Judd’s gaucherie and Lora 
stood, one hand linked in the arm of her new friend, 
the other thrust deep in the pocket of her coat, her 
face turning from chalky white to crimson and back 
to chalky white again. But she tried to laugh to 
show that she enjoyed Hannah’s little joke too, and 
Hannah said, “Well, boys will be boys—come on, 
Mimi. Mother’s making signs,” and gave the dark 
girl’s arm a tug. “Be seeing you, Ollie!” 

She had not planned to insult Lora for she was 
not, ordinarily, a malicious girl and she had always 
liked Lora well enough. But she had liked Judd 
better, secretly resented his affair with Lora, rejoiced 
at its failure and felt very sorry for Judd. And here 
was the cause of all his misfortune, walking the 
deck, gay as you please, with the most attractive man 
on shipboard; the man she had selected as her own 
special diversion as far back as the Statue of Liberty. 
Well, she had shown Lora that Judd wasn’t pre¬ 
cisely pining for his lost love, either. And she hadn’t 
really lied—everything she had said was true enough. 
Judd had said he was celebrating his freedom— 


216 And Both Were Young 

Oliver Hard looked after the departing girls, then 
he glanced curiously down at Lora. Her slender arm 
was taut as steel under his, her face so pinched and 
sick that he was alarmed. “Look,” he said, “there’s 
a porpoise!” and drew her over to the rail. “No, 
I guess it wasn’t a porpoise, after all.” He leaned 
on the rail and, staring lazily at the sea, said, “Funny 
how few of those very fair blondes have loving dis¬ 
positions. I was afraid it was a mistake for us to 
stop her. I rather suspected little Hannah was no 
friend of yours.” 

She held tight to the rail. “Did you?” 

“Definitely,” he said. He turned those merry, 
worldly eyes of his upon her and the color came 
rushing, hot and painful, into her cheeks. “But I 
wouldn’t let it bother me, if I were you. Why should 
you care?” 

“I don’t,” she said and realized the truth of that 
as she said it. Why should she care about Hannah, 
about anyone? Especially now that she didn’t have 
to worry about Judd any more. Now that she knew 
he was taking it so sensibly, not just eating his heart 
out for her. It was absurd to eat your heart out for 
anyone. She made herself look at Ollie Hard, chin 
up, smiling. “I really don't care.” 

“That’s better!” The wind had whipped her hair 
loose, bright curls feathered her hot cheeks and her 
eyes were luminous with defiance and pain. Ollie 


\ 


And Both Were Young 217 

Hard looked at her and thought of the things he 
had heard about her and was puzzled. She didn’t 
look like a menace to him. She looked like a ter¬ 
ribly sweet kid who had been badly hurt, so badly 
hurt that she couldn’t conceal her wounds from the 
public view and that was a damned shame. He said, 
“Now, look here, this sort of thing happens to us 
all sometime or other. But we don’t want to give 
people the satisfaction of letting ’em see it hurts, do 
we? Thing to do when you—er—meet a friend as 
isn’t a friend, is keep your head up—put up a front. 
Let on you don’t give a damn, see?” 

She saw and for a moment she wished she could 
drop down dead there on the deck. But healthy girls 
of nineteen did not drop dead—of shame, or love 
either, even when there was no reason for them to 
keep on living. And, since you couldn’t die or hide 
under the bedclothes the rest of your life, the only 
thing left for you to do was to put up a front. That 
was what her mother had been trying to tell her this 
morning. She nodded and said, “Yes, I see.” 

“Sure, you do!” He slid his hand under her arm. 
“How about finishing our walk?” 

So Lora put up a front by walking three times 
round the deck on Mr. Hard’s arm; walking three 
times past the chairs where Mrs. Vines and Hannah 
sat, and being much too animated and interested in 
her new friend to notice her old ones. 


218 And Both Were Young 

When she went down to the stateroom, she found 
Julia there freshening up for lunch. Julia said, 
“Well, I see you’ve made friends with that nice- 
looking boy Hay picked up.” 

Lora tossed her hat on the bed, shook out her 
curls. “Yes. Hay knows how to pick them, doesn’t 
he?” 

Her mother looked at her. “He seems very jolly 
and pleasant—you look better, dear. Much better.” 

“I feel grand. Ollie gave me a drink.” 

“Ollie! He gave you a drink?” 

“Oh, this wasn’t just an ordinary thirst quencher. 
This was medicinal. Just what I needed.” 

Julia had the sense that someone else had spoken. 
That smooth, toneless voice was so unlike Lora’s. 
The face reflected above her own in the dressing 
table mirror as Lora reached for her brush, was 
not the stricken, lost-eyed, little girl face of that 
morning. The soft childish curves of cheek and chin 
and throat had hardened, the gray-green eyes looked 
out from between their long lashes a woman’s eyes, 
veiled and inscrutable. 

Julia did not comment on the change in her child 
though each day confirmed it more surely. Some¬ 
how Lora had found the courage, or that pride of 
which her parents had deplored the lack, to bear the 
burden of her loss and disgrace. She was assured 
and cheerful. If she noticed that the “nice girls” 


And Both Were Young 219 

aboard avoided her, she gave no sign and Ollie Hard 
saw to it that she did not lack for men, for partners 
at deck games and dancing. 

There was relief in this for Julia. Her troubles 
were no longer complicated by worry for her daugh¬ 
ter’s health nor pity for her helpless despair. If 
she recognized that the rift between them was widen¬ 
ing she was too wretched, too occupied in putting 
up a front herself, to bother overmuch about it. Mrs. 
Vines acknowledged the presence of her friend and 
neighbor of twenty summers only when they chanced 
to meet on deck or in the lounge—“Good morning, 
Mrs. Paris! Lovely day!” Julia knew that their 
story had not stopped with the Vines. She fancied 
every woman on board looked at her with the mem¬ 
ory of those headlines in her eyes, seeing in her the 
mother of the girl who had been expelled from 
college for her scandalous conduct; seeing in her 
the wife of the “tailor.” She longed for George, for 
her home and all the familiar, comfortable activities 
that had filled her life. But, most of all, she longed 
for a sight of that strange land where she hoped no 
telltale winds could follow her. 

In this she was not alone. Hannah Vines was also 
looking restlessly toward her journey’s end. She had 
never enjoyed a voyage less. She said so in her let¬ 
ters home, an unnecessary admission since the fact 
that she wrote at all was sufficient proof of her ennui. 


220 And Both Were Young 

She wrote her friends that the trip had been a ghastly 
bore. There was practically no one on board, not 
one attractive man. And, to an impulsive note to 
Judd Harcott, she added—“Lora Paris seems to be 
enjoying herself, though. She’s generally completely 
surrounded by men.” 

i 

Judd received that letter in a small, furnished 
room on the top floor of a shabby house in one of 
the less select quarters of New York’s East Side. 
When he had left the Plaza, he had complied with 
the clerk’s request for a forwarding address. He 
had regretted this ever since for Cliff Sidney had 
conscientiously readdressed the letters that had come 
to the university for his friend and these had fol¬ 
lowed Judd, a steady stream. Letters his too pub¬ 
licized affair with Earle had brought forth from an 
idle public—from ladies who thought he had been 
grossly ill used, from men who thought he had not 
been sufficiently ill used; from religious persons 
who wanted to reform him, from lonely girls who 
wanted to console him, from beggars, cranks, admir¬ 
ers—and friends. 

Those letters from the men and women who had 
been his comrades and intimates were, perhaps, the 
hardest to bear. For in every protestation of their 
loyalty to him he read a condemnation of Lora and 
his heart shook with remorse and shame. He made 


221 


And Both JVere Young 

no attempt to answer them. That was part of his 
plan—to shake off the past, build a new future. 
This was what he had decided to do after Cliff left 
him that day. He had seen himself bereft of every¬ 
thing that made life worth the effort of living but 
going on alone and unfriended, “making good,” 
“showing them.” 

This was the way Judd saw himself during those 
first days in New York for though he was lonely and 
bitter he was also young and healthy and the belief 
that time would justify him and restore Lora to him 
grew in his heart as a pearl grows in its shell. But 
he was not long in learning what other men had 
learned before him, that there is no past nor future, 
that the one is an integral part of the other. Judd’s 
past trailed him in those letters, hampered him in 
his search for work. In office after office, when he was 
lucky enough to force his way past the functionaries 
who guard the portals of the great, it bobbed up to 
block his way. 

Pencil poised over paper, they dragged it out: Was 
he a college man? Well, yes—and no. What did he 
mean by that? Had he flunked out of college? Well 
—no. If he skirted those reefs successfully, there was 
the question of references. To whom could he refer 
them that was not a part of that past he had re¬ 
nounced? Names occurred to him, names that car¬ 
ried promise of kindliness and indulgence but pride 


222 And Both Were Young 

and a growing sense of failure kept him from ap¬ 
pealing to them. 

With each day his self-confidence waned. He never 
left his room that he was not ridden by a very frenzy 
of fear that he would meet someone he knew. He 
found himself haunting the shabbier streets, stam¬ 
mering over his applications for work—any kind of 
work, now, in the shabbier employment agencies. 
He refused a clerkship in a man’s haberdashery— 
Suppose someone he knew came in to buy a cravat— 
and the chance to drive the car of a man whose name 
was too familiar. But he accepted the job of ship¬ 
ping clerk in a large department store and kept it 
for two days. On the third morning he saw his fel¬ 
low clerks whispering together, glancing over their 
shoulders at him, and walked out. 

He knew it was absurd and cowardly but introspec¬ 
tion had eaten his courage away. Introspection and 
loneliness—and poverty. When he had used up what 
cash he possessed, he had pawned his two suitcases. 
But a man couldn’t live on two suitcases for long. 
He woke one morning to find that he was penniless 
and shabby and hungry. He had never sent for his 
trunks, he could not send for them now. If he sent for 
his trunks that would put Cliff on his trail. He 
couldn’t have that happen. He knew he was not be¬ 
ing very clever. There were ways for men to get 
money or to live without it. He had a couple of ways 


And Both Were Young 223 

in his pocket. One was a small, square diamond ring 
and the other was a narrow gold band. 

He had been looking at those two rings on the 
morning that Hannah’s note came. His room was 
cold and someone in the house was frying pancakes. 
He could smell them plainly but it did not bother 
him greatly. He was too hungry and he had just spent 
his last fifteen cents on a package of cigarettes. That 
was pretty damned silly, but even a poor bum had 
to have his smoke—he had read of things like that. 
In fact it seemed to him that he had read his own 
story dozens of times—Disintegration of a Gentle¬ 
man—or—Gentleman into Bum, perhaps. He might, 
he thought, have been more original but tragedy 
never was original. After a man lost his self-respect, 
it didn’t matter much what happened to his body. 

Coming back after buying his cigarettes, he found 
Hannah’s letter on the cluttered hall table. The 
words S.S. Franconia and the picture of the elegant 
ship made him smile. But he was not smiling when 
he had finished the letter that Hannah had written 
out of pique and boredom. He read it through three 
times and with each reading, some tension in him 
slacked. For Lora really was all right and that was 
what had been worrying him all these weeks, the 
fear that he had injured her beyond recovery and 
the fervent hope that one day he would be able to 
make amends. But now she was all right, her old 


224 And Both Were Young 

joyous, light-hearted self, “completely surrounded 
by men”—as why shouldn’t she be? He was the last 
person she would ever need again and now there 
was no reason why he should bother about either 
the past or the future. 

He tore the letter to shreds and tossed it in the 
battered tin scrap basket. He reached for a second 
cigarette but drew those two rings out of his pocket 
instead. He held them in the palm of his hand and 
looked at them, the little square diamond, the wed¬ 
ding ring that had never been worn. He ought to 
be able to hock the diamond for a fair sum—“I 
wouldn’t put too much money in it, darling,” his 
mother had said. “It would be bad taste for a girl 
still in school and we really can’t afford—” He had 
put as much in it as he could scrape together and 
when he had mailed it, he had insured it for a good 
deal more than it was worth. Come to think of it, 
he’d never even seen that ring on Lora’s hand. There 
had been plenty of time before college opened for 
him to take it to New York but his mother had per¬ 
suaded him that they needed him at home and so 
he’d never seen Lora wearing her engagement ring. 

He had seen her wearing the wedding ring, though. 
That day they had bought it. They had bribed the 
old jeweler to engrave it then and there and hung 
over him while he did it. Then, on their way back 
to the Harbor Village they had parked in a little 


And Both Were Young 225 

pine grove and Lora had tried on the ring. For a 
moment she actually had been a bride. She had 
looked at the ring on her hand and blushed and he 
had kissed first the ring and then her lips—and the 
air had been spicy with the scent of the pines and full 
of drowsy summer afternoon sounds. Then Lora 
had taken the ring off and pretended to be alarmed 
because, she said, she’d heard it was bad luck to try 
on the ring before the ceremony. He’d laughed at 
thatl Bad luck indeed! 

He dropped the rings in an inside pocket and got 
up. He’d pawn the diamond, the other one wouldn’t 
bring enough to bother about. He had been sitting 
in his overcoat, now he picked up his hat and opened 
the door. The chambermaid was counting soiled 
towels in the hall and Judd said, “Hello, there! 
How’s the girl?” 

She looked up at him sharply. She was a thin, 
overworked sharp-eyed girl and long experience in 
secondrate rooming houses had taught her to be 
wary of cheerfulness. Cheerfulness meant either that 
a man was drunk or that he was planning to make his 
getaway. She had been warned to keep an eye on 
Judd for he had arrived with two suitcases and now 
he had none. Still he had paid his rent in advance 
only day before yesterday so maybe he had a right 
to be cheerful. “Mornin’,” she said. 

He shook his finger at her, “Someone,” he said ? 


226 And Both Were Young 

“is breaking the rules. Someone is cooking pancakes 
—an odor very offensive to my olfactory sense.” 

She sat back on her heels and stared at him. He 
had never spoken to her before, she had never seen 
him smile before. He was smiling now, a broad grin 
that made deep creases in his thin, unshaven cheeks, 
and his eyes were full of a wild and reckless light. 
“You kidding me?” she said. 

“I wouldn’t dream of taking such a liberty, my 
dear. I’m merely announcing my imminent de¬ 
parture. I really dislike the smell of pancakes in¬ 
tensely—other people’s pancakes, you understand.” 

“You mean you’re leavin’?” 

“That is the simplest way to put it.” 

“Well,” she said defensively, “we don’t make no 
refunds here, you know. Too bad you didn’t make 
up your mind before you paid your rent.” 

“Isn’t it?” Judd said, his grin widening. “Well, I 
guess I’m too used to having other folks make up 
my mind for me. Maybe that’s what ails me. Now 
what do you think of that—a great big boy like me?” 

What she thought was that he was certainly a nut 
but she refrained from saying so and Judd went 
down the musty stairs and out into the gray Novem¬ 
ber day. Or was it December? He was not sure 
about that, not sure about much of anything except 
that he was going away, which was what he had been 
longing to do from the first. He didn’t know where. 


And Both Were Young 227 

that wasn’t important. Anywhere would do so long 
as it was far enough. If he went far enough and fast 
enough, he might even get away from himself. 

The soiled old man in the dingy, cluttered pawn¬ 
shop under the Elevated, looked with practiced in¬ 
difference at the diamond. He was not, he said, in¬ 
terested in diamonds. Diamonds were a drug on the 
market. There were too many good imitations these 
days. Still, since Judd was his first customer and he 
was superstitious, he would advance him something 
on the ring as a very particular favor— 

Judd lolling against the counter said, “Thanks 
a lot, Shylock!” 

“Shylock iss not my name,” the old man said 
mildly, reaching for his pencil and thinking that he 
was doing a very fair Park Avenue business these 
days, “it iss John. Vat is yours, pliss?” 

Judd opened his mouth to speak, closed it on a 
thin smile. Then he said, “That’s funny, mine’s 
John, too—John—Harris.” 

Let the dead past bury its dead—and bury it deep. 





ULIA WROTE TO HER HUSBAND FROM THE PENSION 

Berri in Paris— 


“The place hasn’t changed much since we were here 
eleven years ago. Since I wrote you last, we’ve moved 
up to the three small rooms on the top floor so that 
it’s almost like having our own little apartment. My 
windows overlook the old Monastery gardens and I can 
see the monks walking about reading their prayer 
books. It’s very romantic. The weather here has been 
frightfully cold and foggy but we have open fires in 
every room and manage to keep warm. 

“Hay started school last Monday. Naturally he doesn’t 
like it yet, it seems very strange and ‘foreign’ to him 
and they had to set him back two classes. But he’s be¬ 
ing tutored in French and will soon catch up, I think. 
For his sake it might have been better to go to England. 
The climate couldn’t be much worse than it is here. 

“You needn’t have worried about Lora. She has never 
shown any signs of fainting again, in fact she seems 
perfectly well and happy. She takes a French lesson 
every day and is studying art at a school on the Left 
Bank and doing very good work, especially with her 
sketching. To see her, you would think nothing un¬ 
usual had happened, that we’d come abroad for pleas- 

2?8 


And Both Were Young' 229 

ure or to improve our minds. This is better than having 
her moping, I suppose, but it is incredible, isn’t it? 

“The man she met on shipboard—Oliver Hard, you 
remember I wrote you about him—stayed in Paris a few 
days before going south and took Lora around a good 
deal. He’s the son of Franklin Hard of the Hard Manu¬ 
facturing place upstate. He’s a nice enough boy—good 
manners, well bred and all that, but a bit flippant— 
the typical playboy. He’s in charge of the firm’s plant 
over here in a place called Coureville. I think he and 
Lora are corresponding, but I’m not sure. I know she 
hasn’t any young friends and I don’t know how to ar¬ 
range for her to meet any. Most of the people here at 
the Pension are English—a good many middle-aged and 
old ladies—not very friendly. 

Be sure to eat your green salads and drink your 
fruit juice every day, dear. And tell the girls not to 
forget to water my flowers. When you come over in 
May, I think it would be nice to go south for a while. 
It’s so cold here—” 

Cold and sunless and bleak was Paris in January. 
Cold and lonely for a middle-class, middle-aged 
woman in exile, longing for her home and her man 
and the life she had lived for more than forty years. 
Trying to be contented, trying not to worry, trying 
not to think! And, in a Paris pension, with no house 
to run, no social obligations to fulfill, no holiday 
parties to plan for the children, no kindred souls 
to gossip with over a cup of tea—you had so much 
time to think. You couldn’t knit all the time, you 


230 And Both Were Young 

couldn’t just sit from morning to night in your room 
even though it overlooked a romantic monastery and 
the chimney pots of the most beautiful city in the 
world. And if you ventured into the Louis-some- 
thing salon, you were confronted with alien faces, 
raised alien eyebrows that seemed to ask what in the 
world you were doing over here in a strange land 
when you ought to be home watering your flowers 
and seeing to it that your poor husband got his green 
salad and fruit juice. 

Or so it seemed to Julia. It had not seemed like 
this eleven years ago when she and George had run 
away for a second honeymoon. Then the days had 
not been long enough, every face had been a friendly 
face and adventure waited around every corner. 
But the consciousness of why she was there was so 
strong in her that she fancied it visible to every 
eye. “She’s the woman who—” “That’s the girl 
who—” You could say that you considered a year 
abroad a better finishing school for a girl than any 
college. But what could you say that would explain 
why a half-grown American boy should not be pre¬ 
paring for his future in his own country? 

Julia sealed and addressed her letter with a sigh 
and the fervent hope that George would not read 
between the lines. It was cold in the room and she 
put another briquette on the fire and thought as 
she did so what ridiculous things they were, silly 


And Both Were Young 231 

little blocks of powdered coal. But the fireplace was 
ridiculous, too, with its prim little grate and meager 
blaze. She thought of her own fireplace at home, 
of the crackling logs and hearty flames. She was 
forever thinking things like this, comparing, resent¬ 
ing, hating. It was growing to be an obsession. Hat¬ 
ing foreign ways and foreign food, the foreign signs 
that met her eyes when she went out, the foreign 
sounds that assailed her ears. She was sick for home! 

Hay came in at five, his books under his arm, his 
cheeks and eyes bright with cold, his mouth sulky. 
Julia said gaily, “Hello, darling! Cold?” 

“Naw!” He threw his books on one chair, his 
hat on another, his coat on a third. “I’m hungry. 
Anything to eat?” 

“I bought some fruit this morning and there are 
some of those little pastry things left. Only don’t 
spoil your appetite for dinner.” 

Hay inspected the fruit on the table, picked up 
one of the little pastry things. “Heck, I’m sick of 
pastry. Don’t they ever make cake over here? I 
mean, regular cake like we have home?” 

“If foreign countries were like home there 
wouldn’t be any point in traveling, darling,” his 
mother said. “How did school go today? 

“Oh, all right.” He dug his hands into his pock¬ 
ets and glared into the fire. “Only the directeur 
said he thought maybe I’d be better off in a lower 


232 And Both Were Young 

class. He said he was afraid I didn’t understand 
some of the subjects well enough to—heck! How 
can I understand ’em when I don’t know what 
they’re saying half the time!” 

“Well, you will soon, dear. You’re getting along 
so well with your French.” 

“I am not! Whenever I say anything the kids all 
snicker. They’re always looking at me like I was a 
freak or something and when we go out for recess 
they stand around and make fun of me and I can’t 
even tell ’em where to get off because I don’t know 
how to say it in French. Listen, it’s a heck of a 
school anyway—you oughta see ’em trying to play 
what they call football! You’d laugh your head off— 
and they don’t have hardly any athletics at all. Hon¬ 
est you oughta see the gym—” His voice choked 
off on the memory of another gym, another school. 
The memory of a football field at “old Pepper’s,” of 
the flying ball and shouting boys and trees gold and 
red in the frosty sun; of the smell of burning leaves 
and roasting apples under a yellow harvest moon and 
jumbled dreams of touchdowns and boxes from 
home. “And there’s nothing to do after school. I 
mean, I don’t know any fellas—” 

Julia got up quickly, her hand pressed hard against 
her throat. She went to Hay and gave his head a 
brisk little pat. “Someday you’ll be terribly glad 
you’ve had this experience, darling. I know it’s 


And Both Were Young 233 

hard right now, but that’s only because it’s so 
strange and new—” 

“Why don’t you take him home, mother?” Lora 
said from the doorway. 

Her mother turned sharply. “I didn’t hear you 
come in.” 

“I came in half an hour ago. I’ve been in my 
room studying. I couldn’t help hearing Hay. Why 
don’t you take him home and leave me here? I’d 
be perfectly all right.” 

“Perfectly all right! A girl of your age alone in a 
strange city—a strange country?” 

“But I really like it and I’d be perfectly safe. 
And it is rough on Hay. He really should be home 
—and in his own school.” 

“Isn’t it a little late for you to think of that now!” 
Julia said, her hand at her throat again pressing 
back the accusations that filled it like a bitter tor¬ 
rent, not knowing that they were all there in her 
tortured eyes for Lora to read. “Don’t talk non¬ 
sense!” 

Lora looked away, said in a low voice, “I didn’t 
think it was nonsense. You wouldn’t have to stay if 
it weren’t for me. That’s why—” 

“You know I wouldn’t dream of leaving you here 
alone! I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing!” 

Lora turned and went back to her own room. 
Her heart did not beat much faster for that scene. 


234 And Both Were Young 

She had hoped, just for a moment, that Hay’s pa¬ 
thetic outburst might triumph over her mother’s 
sense of duty, that she would take him home. It 
would have made it so much easier for them all—for 
Julia especially. Lora had thought for a long time, 
that it must be hard for a mother to be cooped up 
like this with the child who had made a lonely exile 
of her. With this thought always in mind, she kept 
out of her mother’s sight as much as she could man¬ 
age; spent hours studying in her room, lingered long 
over her art lessons, sat by the hour in the parks 
watching the children at play, took Hay sightseeing 
whenever he was free to go. 

She had done all this without thinking or feeling 
too deeply about it. She saw herself as serving a sen¬ 
tence for her crime and was resolved to serve it as 
patiently as possible. But this widening rift between 
her and her mother was complicating things badly. 
And she was helpless to make things better. 

She did not mind greatly for herself. The indif¬ 
ference she had assumed under Oliver Hard’s tui¬ 
tion came more naturally to her now. It extended 
even to Judd. At first when she had thought of him 
—back at college, flying around in his old roadster, 
dancing, laughing, free once more—she had known 
a warm thrill of satisfaction. Judd, at least, was all 
right. A man could live down his youthful indis¬ 
cretions, forget his youthful passions. He would 


And Both Were Young 235 

take his degree in June and life would lie before 
him, new and exciting and full of promise. But 
as the days passed, she thought of him less and less. 

She thought of him today, though, coming from 
that scene with her mother and for the first time, 
the thought was tainted with resentment. Judd 
was all right—and she was glad, of course—still, he 
had lost nothing by that experience save an illusion 
or two, perhaps. She had lost everything, even her 
mother’s love. It wasn’t fair—ah, it wasn’t fairl 
A few days after Hay’s outburst, Lora left the 
little studio on the Rue St. Jacques early. It was a 
half-holiday for Hay and she thought she would take 
him somewhere, to that quaint musee, perhaps, with 
the realistic wax figures and trick mirrors—more like 
a Mrs. Jarley’s waxworks than a musee, really. Hay 
loathed museums but he was sure to like this one. 

She walked briskly across the cobbled courtyard. 
She was wearing the blue suit with the near-sables 
that her mother had feared was too “grown up” for 
her when they bought it last Spring. Lora had caught 
up with it in the intervening months. Because she 
was thinner she appeared taller, her thick curls had 
been thinned out and “set,” she wore her small, 
brimmed hat in the French manner—straight on her 
head and drawn a little over her eyes. 

As she opened the heavy grilled gate she saw a tall 
young man leaning against the stone pilaster smiling 


236 And Both Were Young 

at her and it was a moment before she recognized 
Ollie Hard. She stopped short, staring. “Ollie! I 
thought you were in Coureville!” 

“Until ten last night you were justified in think¬ 
ing so,” he said and took her hand and grinned down 
at her. “That was the hour I boarded the Rapide at 
Marseilles. Arriving in Paris at dawn, I appeased 
my hunger at a convenient tavern, performed my 
ablutions and hied me forth to the Pension Berri 
only to be informed by a buxom wench that you 
had succumbed to the lure of the brush and palette 
—fancy my chagrin!” 

She laughed. “All proper young ladies must 
learn to draw and speak foreign languages—” 

“And play the pianoforte,” he said. “Ghastly 
thought. Darling, you’re almost as beautiful as I 
remembered you. How about a cup of chocolat 
at the Cafe Deux Magots?” 

It had been like this with them ever since that 
meeting on the ship. This merry worldling had 
dispensed with all the preliminaries. Now they 
might have known each other from their bread and 
milk days. “Chocolate at the Deux Magots sounds 
lovely,” she said. 

He tucked her hand under his arm and they 
started down the noisy, crowded Rue St. Jacques. 
“You’re not, by any chance, glad to see me, I sup¬ 
pose?” 


237 


And Both Were Young 

“I suppose I am.” 

“I kind of thought you would be,” he said. “That 
last letter of yours—well, it lacked the customary 
hey nonny, nonny ring.” 

Mats had been spread on the pavements outside 
the famous old cafe, the braziers were glowing. Stu¬ 
dents from the nearby ateliers—men in berets and 
hatless girls—were nibbling brioche and sipping choc - 
olat at the little tables. Men and women in search 
of more spiritual refreshment, filed in and out of 
the open doors of the ancient Church of St. Ger¬ 
main de Pres across the way. A dirty, cheerful old 
chestnut vender cackled the excellence of her wares 
—“Marrons, chaud tres chaud!” to the passersby. 

A waiter recognizing these two as Americans and 
sensing a generous tip, led them to a table beside 
a brazier and Ollie said, “Deux chocolat—^nd a 
couple of brioche , gar^on.” Then he said to Lora, 
“You look utterly lovely but different—what have 
you been doing to yourself, ma clierieV’ 

“I adore your French,” she said. 

“And I adore your eyes. But you didn’t answer 
my question.” 

“It’s probably my hair—I had pounds thinned 
out.” She leaned on her elbows and smiled at him. 
“Now, tell me all about it? How’s business and 
how’s Coureville?” 

He wagged his head and rolled his eyes, “Try- 


238 And Both Were Young 

ing to sell electric iceboxes to people who have wor¬ 
ried along nicely with window boxes for a thousand 
years isn’t a business. It’s a major operation. And 
Coureville—oo-la-la and lackaday! Coureville, lit¬ 
tle one, is not a town, it’s a tradition. Would you 
believe that in Coureville the peasantry still goes 
shod in sabots and believes the radio is black magic? 
In Coureville oxen draw the primitive plough and 
the names of Irving Berlin and Mae West were never 
heard in the land. The belle of the village has no 
ankles and a moustache and the nearest nightclub 
is in Marseilles twenty kilometers distant!” 

“I thought you looked more rested,” Lora said. 

“Rested, my child, is not the word. Atrophied, 
if you like—fossilized—mummified—” 

“Poor Ollie!” 

He reached for her hand and squeezed it hard. 
“That’s better. Just what I needed. Now, tell me 
about you—and the kid and your mother. How are 
they? Enjoying gay Paree?” 

“Y-yes. I’m afraid they get a little homesick some¬ 
times. My father and mother have never been sepa¬ 
rated before. Mother gets pretty lonely.” 

“Don’t I know what that is! And how about your¬ 
self? Found any nice playmates?” 

She looked away. “No, I haven’t met— I didn’t 
come to Paris to play.” 

“If anybody hears you say that, the franc’ll go off 


And Both Were Young 239 

ten points,” he said. “Well, what do you do when 
you’re not pursuing the arts and generally improv¬ 
ing your mind?” 

She said restively, “Oh, I—I don’t know. I manage 
to keep busy.” 

“So do I,” he said, “but it takes a lot of doing some¬ 
times. You and I ought to get together, darling. 
Now, there’s an idea. Why not come to Coureville 
and study the morals and manners of the native and, 
incidentally, cheer my lonely exile?” 

“That is an idea!” She tried to say it lightly, but 
she detected a new note in his voice, read new excite¬ 
ment in his eyes. “I’ll have to think about that.” 

“I have been thinking about it the last couple of 
days,” he said. “I had a hunch you were kind of 
rattling around up here in the big city and I honestly 
think you’d like Coureville. It’s a romantic spot, 
you know—historical ruins and ghosts. Roman 
bastions and what have you. Why not marry me 
and come along down?” 

She caught her upper lip between her teeth and 
the color drained slowly out of her face. “You’d 
better not ask me, Ollie. I might surprise you and 
take you up.” 

“It wouldn’t surprise me at all. I’d think it was 
very sensible of you. Here you are mooning around 
Paris with nobody to play with and there I am in the 
same fix. So why not get together? Why not pool 


240 And Both Were Young 

our miseries, as it were?” He lowered his voice, said 
close to her ear, “The best way to get over one man 
is to acquire another, darling.” 

She lifted startled eyes and the color came rush¬ 
ing back into her cheeks. “So you know about that, 
do you?” 

“I hope you won’t mind too much,” he said, “but 
I do. I know the real story. Hay told me. I think 
he rather hoped something might come of it and he 
wanted me to have my facts straight.” 

She faced him squarely. “You must have been 
amused!” 

“I was. When I first heard it, I couldn’t believe it. 
I thought your little brother had been reading a 
book.” 

“One of those sloppy, old-fashioned love stories,” 
she said. 

“Yup. I couldn’t believe that any girl in this en¬ 
lightened age could be so—well—” 

“Idiotic,” she said. 

“Quixotic is a nicer word, darling. Now, I 
wouldn’t mind a quixotic wife at all.” 

She said, slowly crumbling a piece of brioche be¬ 
tween her fingers, “Your offer tempts me, Ollie. 
But, if I should accept it, I’d only be doing it to 
escape.” 

“I realize that and it’s okay with me,” he said 
cheerfully. “Plenty of people have married for less 
commendable reasons.” 


241 


And Both Were Young 

“Some people,” she said, “marry for love.” 

He gave an energetic nod. “Which is all right, 
too, if they have the other things that go with it. But 
I doubt if it’s as essential as the other things.” 

“What other things?” 

“Well, if they need each other, if each has some¬ 
thing the other requires. That, you know, is the 
foundation of every successful partnership.” She 
moved her head in slow agreement. It was true. She 
and Judd had not really needed each other. They 
had wanted each other and they had had love, but 
they had not had the “other things” essential to a 
successful partnership. “Now, you and I,” Ollie 
Hard said, “need each other. I need a companion 
in my exile, you need to escape, as you express it. 
I’m of age, solvent, of a temperate and sunny disposi¬ 
tion. I have a hunch we’d get along fine and what 
more could any couple ask? If we didn’t, there’s al¬ 
ways the divorce court and no hard feelings.” 

She said quietly, “You’re being very frank and 
generous with me, Ollie, so I’ll be frank with you, 
too. I like you a lot, but I don’t want to marry you 
—I don’t want to marry anybody, but I would like 
to make it possible for my mother and brother to go 
back home. They’re only staying over here on my 
account and they both hate it—and it’s terribly hard 
on my father, too.” Her hands were quiet in her 
lap, now, her eyes fixed, steady and grave, on his. 
“I’ve thought and thought—in novels girls in a posi- 


242 And Both Were Young 

tion like mine, would run away and get a job—” 

“And marry the rich boss,” he said. 

“Yes. But there’s nothing I can do—I never fin¬ 
ished college and I haven’t any talent—except for 
drawing pictures! Besides I couldn’t do anything 
like that—like running away. That would only make 
things look worse. But if I married—” 

“Marriage would resolve all your difficulties, dar¬ 
ling. It’s the perfect solution.” 

She looked at him. His mouth was smiling but its 
merry skepticism was a little forced and his worldly 
dark eyes were excited and hopeful. She said, “Did 
you come to Paris especially to rescue me, Ollie?” 

“Yeah, but I had an ulterior motive so don’t order 
up any haloes. You’ve been on my mind for weeks. 
I kind of guessed how things would be for you up 
here because once people get themselves in a mess 
like this, well it’s kind of like falling into a swamp. 
The harder you try to get out the more messed up 
you get—” 

“Yes,” she said eagerly. “That’s it! I’ve tried and 
tried—” 

“And, you see, I happen to want to marry you 
very much, darling,” he said. 

Julia was in her room when Lora brought Ollie 
Hard to her. She had been waiting for Hay and Lora 
and the gong for dejeuner and at first glance she 


And Both Were Young 243 

did not recognize the tall young man with her 
daughter. There was an unfinished sweater in her 
lap and knitting needles in her hand but she had been 
gazing out of the window at the few thin rays of sun¬ 
light on the garden wall and her eyes were a little 
blinded by that unusual light so that for a moment 
she thought Ollie was Judd Harcott. Then he came 
toward her and she recognized him. She was not 
very glad to see him. She did not dislike him but 
she had sensed from the first that he did dislike her. 
She tried to make her voice sound cordial. “How 
do you do, Mr. Hard!” 

Ollie said, “How are you?” and asked if he might 
sit down and drew a chair closer to hers. Then he 
said in that pleasant, half-mocking way of his, ‘Tm 
afraid this is going to surprise you a little, Mrs. 
Paris, but I’ve come to ask you if you’ve any objection 
to my marrying Lora. I’ve just asked her to be my 
wife and I’m happy to say she has consented—” 

He stopped there to pick up the sweater and yarn 
that had dropped from Julia’s lap as she stood up. 
She stood there rigid, her eyes on Lora who was sit¬ 
ting in the center of a small brocaded divan. She 
stood looking at her child as though she had never 
seen her before, as though she had suddenly dis¬ 
covered something so incredible, so monstrous, that 
she couldn’t believe in it. “Marry her! Lora has 
consented to marry you!” 


244 And Both Were Young 

Ollie said imperturbably, “We hoped you would 
approve—” 

“Approve!” Julia said, whirling on him, her hands 
fisted hard against her breast. “You hoped I would 
approve!” 

“Naturally, you will want to know that I’m in a 
position to support a wife,” he said, with just a trace 
of irony. “I can assure you that I am. As to my 
character, family position, antecedents and all that, I 
think I can show you—” 

“Lora! Is—is this a joke?” 

“Goodness, no!” Lora said and sprang up and 
came across the room and stood beside Ollie Hard. 
“It isn’t a joke at all! It’s perfectly serious. Don’t 
you see, we—” 

“You want to marry this man! You could marry 
him-” 

“Ollie’s fine—and I want to marry him,” Lora 
said, her voice a little high but quite steady. “If 
you’re worrying about that other affair, he knows 
all about it and doesn’t mind at all. He knows it 
wasn’t serious—that it was only a boy and girl affair 
—just as you always said it was—” 

Julia stepped back from her. “Only a—a boy and 
girl affair!” 

“Yes. And this isn’t like that, Mother. This is 
perfectly sensible and businesslike. We know what 
we’re doing.” 


And Both Were Young 245 

Without taking his eyes off Julia, Ollie reached 
out and drew Lora close to his side. He said, “We 
hoped you’d be glad about this, Mrs. Paris. We hoped 
you’d give us your consent and your blessing—” 

“But you don’t insist on it,” Julia said. “That’s 
what you mean, isn’t it? You’d marry her without 
it—a girl you scarcely know—” 

“I’m sorry to contradict, but I think I know Lora 
very well. Better perhaps than some people who 
have known her longer!” 

“—you would marry her, knowing we’re alone 
over here—knowing her father is three thousand miles 
away—” 

“Isn’t that all the more reason why she should 
have a husband to look after her?” 

“I don’t think dad will mind, mother,” Lora said. 
“Of course, it would be fine if he could be here but 
we want to be married at once. Ollie’s all alone in 
Coureville—he has a darling old house with a walled 
garden and fig trees—think of it in January! But 
it’s lonely for him and he needs me. We’re not 
going to have a real wedding—I won’t need any trous¬ 
seau—we’re just going to be married by the registrar 
or whatever you call him—” 

“You are!” Julia said. “You’ve decided all that, 
have you? You’ve made all your plans?” 

“Yes,” Lora said, “we’ve made all our plans.” 
That night last autumn when she had put on her 


246 And Both Were Young 

grown-up suit and near-sables to go and meet Judd, 
she had had a delicious fear that he might not rec¬ 
ognize her in her city clothes. It was a groundless 
fear for the girl in the city clothes was still the girl 
he had met on the beach hugging the beach ball in 
the curve of her slender waist, a merry, sun-bronzed 
girl smiling at him from under lashes that curled up 
and back like a child’s. Judd would still have rec¬ 
ognized her that night at the Plaza, but it is doubt¬ 
ful if he would have done so now. Even her mother’s 
eyes searched in vain for some sign of that rosy, buoy¬ 
ant girl, trying to penetrate the protective front Lora 
had built up—but it was like shooting at a stone 
wall with one of those rubber-tipped arrows Hay 
used to play with. 

Julia could have screamed with the futility of 
her own despair. She said, her eyes moving help¬ 
lessly between them, “I don’t know—what to say! 
Lora, I don’t think you realize—you can't realize 
what you’re doing! I think you should wait—for a 
little while, anyway—think this over—” 

“What is there to wait for?” Lora said and smiled 
a little. “No, I’m going through with it—this time.” 




^V^ORA SAT ON A BENCH IN THAT PRIMMEST OF 

Paris parks, the prim little Parc Monceau. For a 
change the sun was bright and quite warm, the 
rolled lawns green as Spring. Bare-legged children 
disported themselves on the pebbled walks with 
that grave gaiety characteristic of the well-bred 
French child. Uniformed nursemaids divided their 
attention between their charges and their embroi¬ 
dery. A smocked gardener knelt to his work among 
the shrubs and now and then someone would stop 
and watch him with that earnest concentration of 
the idler. 

Lora sat with her hands in her lap. Ollie was off 
somewhere making inquiries necessary to the mar¬ 
riage ceremony, sending telegrams and cables, greas¬ 
ing, as he expressed it, the marital wheels. Lora had 
gone over to the Rue St. Jacques for her portfolio. 
There had been no hurry about that but she had 
made a great point of it, wanting to get away from 
the pension, not wanting to be alone with her mother. 
They had been alone for the few moments after 
Ollie left and before Hay came in from school and 


247 


248 And Both Were Young 

Julia had tried to say some of the things she felt 
she must say. But when she tried to say them, they 
sounded so false and inconsistent to her that she 
stopped from sheer confusion. She had been horri¬ 
fied by Lora’s incredible, cold-blooded inconstancy, 
yet how could she accuse her of inconstancy after 
having exhorted her to forget Judd? She could not 
protest on the ground of Ollie’s youth or insolvency. 
He was twenty-seven, a good deal better than sol¬ 
vent and he had assured Julia that his parents would 
be “tickled to death that he’d settled down,” and 
that they would be “crazy about Lora.” 

Julia had found herself floundering helplessly 
while Lora listened, polite and impassive. Julia 
had stammered finally, “What will your father 
think?” 

“He’ll probably think he’s pretty lucky to get 
me off his hands,” Lora had said. 

Now Lora sat in the Parc, her hands quiet in her 
lap, her heart almost as quiet in her breast. A lovely 
lethargy overlay her emotions. She could look at the 
little French children rolling their hoops or sedately 
skipping rope and think of nothing but little French 
children rolling hoops and sedately skipping rope. 
Presently she must go back to the pension for Ollie 
was coming to take her to dinner. They were going 
to Foyot’s and he would tell her about things—what 
they had to do about the license, when they could 


And Both Were Young 249 

be married. She supposed she should be thinking 
about clothes, but she had little money of her own 
and hated to ask her mother for more. Besides there 
was no time and she had plenty of clothes. 

The smocked gardener working around the shrubs 
had quite an audience now. Some children were 
watching him, and a rather plump man in gray. He 
leaned back on his cane and stared down at the 
gardener’s deft manipulation of his trowel. Lora 
looked at him and frowned a little, thinking there 
was something vaguely familiar about him. Then 
a child in a nearby pram cried and she turned to 
look at it and forgot him. 

He had walked past her once and turned and 
was passing her again when she looked up and rec¬ 
ognized Mr. Harcott. He continued a few steps down 
the walk, turned and came back and stood directly 
in front of her, his hat in his hand. He said, “Why, 
er—how do you do! I—er—I thought I recognized 
you.” 

The last time she had seen him was that day in the 
Old Harbor church and for just a second she felt 
again as she had felt then, terribly young and fright¬ 
ened and guilty. But that lasted only a second. There 
was nothing to be afraid of now, nothing to feel 
guilty about—she had given him back his boy, hadn’t 
she? She said coldly, “How do you do!” 

“This is a charming spot, isn’t it?” he said. “May 


250 And Both Were Young 

I sit down here?—a lovely day for a wonder, too. I—er 
—I’d no idea you were in Paris. Have you been here 
long?” 

“Oh, yes. We’ve been here for some weeks.” 

“Is that so? Well, well—” His cane was propped 
between his knees, he began to poke a little hole in 
the gravel with its ferrule and Lora saw that his hand 
was shaking, the cane shaking. She had not remem¬ 
bered him as an old man and was surprised to find 
him so now. Surprised but not at all moved, either 
by his infirmities or his friendly advances. She 
reached for the folio on the bench beside her and 
he said, “Is your—er—husband here—in Paris—with 
you?” 

Her eyes spread. “My husband?” 

“I—didn’t I understand you to say that he was with 
you?” 

“I have no husband,” she said. “I am here with 
my mother and brother.” 

She stood up to go, was amazed to find that 
shaking hand on her arm. “And Judd? Where is 
he?” 

She was too astonished for a moment to answer. 
Then she repeated, frowning, shaking her head 
slowly, “Where is Judd?” 

His fingers tightened on her arm. “You heard 
me, didn’t you? I asked you a civil question, you 
might be good enough to answer it civilly.” 

She sat down on the bench again, partly because 


And Both Were Young 251 

one or two of the nursemaids were staring, partly 
because she felt too shaky to stand. But he should 
not, she thought hotly, frighten her again. “I don’t 
see why I should answer it at all, Mr. Harcott—I 
don’t see why you should ask me such a question. 
You must know that I don’t know anything—about 
Judd—any more.” 

“You don’t know anything—you—you mean you’ve 
broken with him?” 

“You must have known that long ago.” 

“If I had known, would I have asked you! So 
that’s it! You threw him over! When you found 
he would have nothing, after all, you threw him 
over!” 

His shaking voice stopped, his shaking hand went 
to his eyes and Lora stared at him, puzzled and in¬ 
dignant. “You’re not being very civil now, Mr. Har¬ 
cott. I broke with Judd because there was nothing 
else to do. I knew you would never forgive him if 
he married me—my parents felt the same way. I 
knew it wasn’t any use—” 

“Well, where is he? Where is he now, then?” 

“Where is he? He’s in college, isn’t he? Don’t 
you know that?” She whirled around on the bench. 
“Don’t you know? Isn’t he in college? Cliff told me 
they were going to let him finish—that everything 
was going to be all right again for him. Wasn’t it? 
Didn't they take him back?” 

The savage red went slowly out of his face leaving 


252 And Both Were Young 

it flaccid and gray. He looked at her helplessly. 
“We seem to be talking in circles—can it be pos¬ 
sible you didn’t know? Didn’t he tell you that they 
agreed to reinstate him only on condition that he 
broke off his engagement to you—” 

“But he did —I did! I broke it!” 

—“and that he refused? That he gave up his de¬ 
gree—his career—his own parents—” 

“Oh, no! No!” 

“He never told you—” 

“How could he? I never saw him again—I never 
knew anything like this could happen!” It didn’t 
matter now that half the proper nursemaids in the 
Parc were gazing with fascinated horror at that 
scene on the bench; at the fierce old man and burn¬ 
ing-eyed girl shouting imprecations at each other. 
“If I had known, do you think I’d have let him go 
so easily? Never! And I’d have made them take him 
back—that’s what you should have done! And all 
this time I thought everything was all right with him! 
Why didn’t you let me know? I’d have told you 
he was free.” She grabbed his sleeve and shook his 
arm. “Where is he now? What happened to him?” 

“I thought you were in a better position to answer 
that question than I. I haven’t seen him—heard from 
him—since that night he left his mother and me to 
keep his rendezvous with you. The night he was 
released—” 


And Both Were Young 253 

“I never met him at all!” Lora said, her face white 
as the white pebbles at her feet. “I never saw him— 
I thought it was no use. He may be dead—any¬ 
thing may have happened to him! Oh, how dared 
you do such a thing to him? I never would have 
done it! I never would have hurt him like that!” 
The tears were pouring down her cheeks, she 
doubled her fists and shook them against his breast. 
“I loved him—more than you did! I loved him more 
than I loved my pride—more than I loved anything. 
But you didn’t or you’d never have let him go! 
You’re a terrible old man! You’re a beast—and 
you’ve spoiled everything—” 

The nursemaids, the gardener, the gaping chil¬ 
dren, saw the pretty American girl leap to her feet 
and go running blindly across the lawns of the prim¬ 
mest park in Paris. One of the nursemaids saw the 
tears streaming down her cheeks, the gardener plainly 
heard her sobs. They turned and glared balefully 
at the old gentleman still sitting on the bench, his 
hands grasping his stick, his eyes on the ground. 
An evil old man, they thought, one of those rich, 
greedy old Americans with too much gold in his 
pocket and too much time on his hands. 

The French are an impulsive and sentimental 
people. It is not at all unlikely that if the gardener 
or one of the more masterful nursemaids had made 
a move to avenge the insult to the pretty, weeping 


254 And Both Were Young 

young lady, Bailey Harcott would have been mobbed. 
But no one made that move and, after a little he 
got, rather laboriously, to his feet. Then he no¬ 
ticed Lora’s portfolio on the bench. He stared down 
at it for a little then he picked it up and tucked it 
under his arm and walked slowly out. 

Julia was trying to write her husband about Lora’s 
approaching marriage. She had begun, “I don’t 
know how to tell you—” a dozen times, for it was 
true. She didn’t know how to tell George that his 
daughter who, a few short weeks before, had sacri¬ 
ficed herself, her family—everything for Judd Har¬ 
cott, was now blithely planning to marry Ollie 
Hard. She had sent Hay out and he was now gloom¬ 
ily bouncing a ball against the garden wall to the 
annoyance of several old ladies playing backgammon 
in the Louis-something salon and making unflatter¬ 
ing remarks about the manners of American chil¬ 
dren in general and Hay in particular. 

Julia wrote— 

“There is absolutely nothing I can do to prevent it. 
You would realize that if you could see Lora—see how 
she has changed. You remember how open and frank 
she always was—” 

(She had been frank enough about Judd that 
August night, “I love him, Mother. If I thought I 
could ever love another man the way I love Judd, 


And Both Were Young 255 

I’d rather die.” And now she was marrying Ollie 
Hard!) 

“—but for the past months she has been like a stranger. 
I’ve never known what she was thinking—” 

(Perhaps I should have tried to find out. Perhaps 
I’ve been like a stranger to her.) 

“—and I’ve been so concerned about Hay and you—I 
didn’t realize this affair was serious at all. How could I? 
I never dreamed that a girl who had been brought up 
to regard marriage as sacred, who’d been reared in the 
atmosphere of a happy marriage—” 

(We always have been so happy, haven’t we, my 
darling? Until this happened! Perhaps it would 
have been better if we’d never had children, and 
yet you remember how we wanted them! You re¬ 
member what a precious baby Lora was—even when 
she first came? Those darling curls and her funny 
little nose? Who would ever have thought then that 
she would live to make us so wretched! Oh, it isn’t 
fair, it isn't fair!) 

“—but of course this may work out all right. It isn’t as 
though there was anything wrong about Ollie. He isn’t 
a man I could ever be really fond of and of course 
I can never forgive his rushing Lora into this—I can’t 
believe she’s in love with him—but young people take 
everything so lightly these days, even love and mar- 

• __ yy 

riage— 


256 And Both Were Young 

(Lora took it seriously enough before. How fu¬ 
rious and offended she was when / treated it lightly. 
Perhaps that was a mistake, but what else could I 
have done! With the Harcotts telling us almost in 
so many words that she wasn’t good enough for 
Judd! If it hadn’t been for that I never would have 
joked her about it—I would have been glad, really. 
Glad that love had come to her so early and so surely, 
before she had messed around with other boys the 
way so many girls do these days. After all, I was in 
love with George when I was eighteen—married 
when I was nineteen. Well, Lora’s nineteen now, 
old enough to be married, but how can she do it 
like this? How can she marry this man when she and 
Judd-”) 

Julia laid down her pen, dropped her prematurely 
white head on the desk. She prayed, “Oh, God, 
dear God!’’ but He was even farther away than 
George today, she could not reach Him. She raised 
her head suddenly, straightened her hair, for some¬ 
one was coming. She heard feet running, light and 
swift, up the stairs, heard a door bang, Lora’s door. 
She sat listening, her eyes narrow, mouth grim and 
bitter. It had been a long time since Lora had come 
bounding up the stairs like that, a long time since 
she had done anything so young and buoyant! Well, 
she was going to be married and no doubt she was 
happy! 


And Both Were Young 257 

She picked up her pen again and laid it down, 
went to her own door and opened it. For a moment 
she stood outside Lora’s door listening to those 
dreadful muffled sounds, then she went in. Lora 
lay across the bed, her head buried in the pillow, 
her slender body writhing. Julia touched her shoul¬ 
der, “Lora! What’s the matter?” 

Lora sat up. Her hair was a snarled tumble, her 
eyes red and wild. She said, “They kicked him out! 
They ruined his life too! He didn’t go back to col¬ 
lege at all—he isn’t going to get his degree—they 
kicked him out! And all this time, I’ve been think¬ 
ing he was all right! That’s all the good it did us— 
he gave up everything for me—and then I wasn’t 
there! I was all he had left—and I wasn’t there!” 

“What are you talking about! Control yourself 
—people will hear you—” 

“Let them hear me! They’re beasts—both of 
them! I told him so—” 

“Who—who did you tell what?” 

“His father—Judd’s father. And so is his mother 
—a beast! They don’t even know what happened to 
him—they turned him out—he may be dead for all 
they know!” 

Julia said sharply, “Be quiet!” and sat down on 
the bed. “Now, tell me quietly what happened— 
what you’re talking about.” 

The story came in incoherent gusts, now savage 


258 And Both Were Young 

and shrill, now thick with sobs. Julia listened, 
nearly as shocked as Lora had been, almost as angry. 
She said, over and over, ‘'How could they? Poor 
boy—poor Judd! And they never knew—” 

“He never went back—they don’t even know what 
became of him. They thought he’d married me—” 

“Yes! That’s what they would think—that we’d 
have no more pride—” 

“Oh, pride! Who cares about pride? If I’d known 
—if I’d only known She broke again, crumpled 
up on the bed. 

Julia said mechanically. “Don’t cry any more. 
You’ll make yourself sick,” and stood up, drew her 
hand across her forehead. She said suddenly, “It’s 
too bad—terribly unfortunate, the whole thing— 
but I don’t see why you should be so upset about 
it now. You’re going to marry another man in a 
couple of days. Had you forgotten that?” 

Lora went still, sat up slowly, wiped her eyes and 
nose with a sodden handkerchief. “Yes, I—I guess 
I did forget—just for a minute.” 

“If you care so much about Judd, why are you 
going to marry Ollie Hard!” 

Lora looked down at the sodden handkerchief; 
she said, low and bitter, “Why do you care what I’m 
going to marry him for—as long as I do marry him 
—as long as you don’t have to worry about me any 
more?” 


And Both Were Young 259 

Julia went livid, she did what she had never done 
in her life before—lifted her hand and struck Lora 
full in the face. She cried, “Don’t you dare talk to 
me like that! Don’t you ever dare speak to your 
mother like that!” 

Lora’s hand flew to her face, she looked up at her 
mother with her mouth sagging open, her wet eyes 
wide—astounded, hurt little-girl eyes. “I— Oh, I 
didn’t mean— Oh, mummy, how could you!” 

How could she! Julia was trembling so she could 
hardly stand, but that was purely external. That 
slap had released some choked-up spring in her, the 
poison of atrabilious brooding went washing away 
on its wholesome flood. She said strongly, “Because 
you needed it!” And sat down on the bed again, 
panting a little. “So that’s why you were marrying 
him?” 

“I thought you’d be glad—to be rid of me. I 
didn’t blame you—” 

“Ah, Lora, Lora! How could you think such a 
thing, my darling?” With a convulsive sob Lora’s 
head went down on her mother’s breast and Julia 
gathered her child in, held her fierce and close, 
kissed the hot, wet cheek. “Did you forget that I’m 
your mother, dear—” (Had she almost forgotten 
it?) “—and that I love you, more than all the world! 
How could you think it would make me happy to 
see you unhappy!” 


260 And Both Were Young 

“Oh, mummy, mummy!” 

“Yes, sweet.” She rocked the slender body gently 
back and forth. “Yes, dear—it's all right, now. Don’t 
cry any more. Everything’s going to be all right.” 

They were still sitting there like this when Hay 
came galloping up the stairs and burst into the 
room. “Listen, mom—” 

“Go away, dear. Sis and I are busy. Go out in the 
garden—” 

“Aw,—there’s nothing to do out there—” 

“Go out and play with your ball.” 

“They don’t want me to. Those old women don’t 
want me to play ball. They say it disturbs them.” 

She snapped, “Well, let it! We pay the same 
board here they do and you’ve as much right to 
play ball as they have to play backgammon. You 
go straight down there and play all you like!” 

When he had gone, looking a little scared, she 
thought, “Now what a way to talk! What a common 
way to talk! First I slap my child’s face and then I 
talk like that—maybe we’re just as common as the 
Harcotts said we were—but at least we don’t drive 
our own children out—” her arms tightened around 
Lora. No, she hadn’t driven her child out, but she 
had almost done worse. She had almost driven her 
child into a loveless marriage. She said briskly, 
“Come now, brace up, sweet. We’ve got things to 
do. First of all you’re going to tell that man you’re 


And Both Were Young 261 

not going to marry him—what’s that? No, you sit 
still. I’ll see who it is.” 

But she needed Lora, after all, for the little femme 
de chambre was at the door. The femme de chambre 
knew no more English than Julia knew French 
and Lora had to be called upon to translate. Julia, 
watching her face, saw it turn so white that the marks 
of that slap stood out on her cheek in faint red welts. 

“What is it? What does she want?” 

“She says there’s a man downstairs—asking for 
you. It’s Mr. Harcott!” 

“Harcott!” Julia said. “Downstairs—well, tell her 
to have him come up to my room. I can’t see him 
downstairs—with all those women listening. Ask her 
to bring him up—” she began to smooth her hair at 
Lora’s bureau. “You don’t have to see him at all— 
You stay right here.” 

Lora closed the door on the femme de chambre 
and went across to her mother. “What do you sup¬ 
pose he wants, mum? What—are you going to say 
to him?” 

“Plenty!” Julia said. “And thank goodness I 
don’t have to say it in French.” 

Mr. Harcott was a little out of breath when he 
had climbed the three flights of stairs, but he adhered 
strictly to the gentlemanly pretext that he was mak¬ 
ing a social call on a lady with whom he had always 


262 And Both Were Young 

been on friendly—if formal—terms. He said, “How 
do you do, Mrs. Paris? It’s nice to see you again but 
you know the old saying—one can always count on 
meeting one’s friends in Paris!” 

Julia shook hands with him briefly, turned on the 
light for the dusk was falling. “Sit down, Mr. Har- 
cott.” 

“Your daughter—perhaps she told you that we 
met in the Park this afternoon—left her portfolio 
on the bench where we had been sitting. Fortunately 
the address was on it—” 

“Thank you for returning it,” Julia said. “Yes, 
Lora told me about meeting you. I’m glad you’ve 
come. If you hadn’t, I was going to hunt you up—” 

“That would have been—er—very nice. My wife 
and I are stopping at the Crillon. My wife, I am 
sorry to say, has not been in the—er—best of health. 
In fact, at the moment, she is confined to her bed.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Julia said, “but not sur¬ 
prised—after what Lora told me about this after¬ 
noon.” 

“Ah—yes. So she told you.” His eyes moved this 
way and that about the room and his hands opened 
and closed on the handle of his stick. With his sag¬ 
ging shoulders and sagging cheeks, his assumption 
of dignity seemed to Julia pathetic and ridiculous. 
“This whole affair—it has been most unfortunate. 
When I saw your daughter this afternoon, I thought 


And Both Were Young 263 

naturally she would know—that is, we had every rea¬ 
son to believe that the young people would have 
married. You may imagine how astonished I was 
when I heard—” 

“No more astonished than we were to learn what 
you had done to Judd,” Julia said quietly. 

He stiffened. “We could hardly have known that 
things would work out this way. Even if we had—it 
would not have altered the fact that Judd had de¬ 
fied us at every turn, opposed all our efforts to help 
him live down his—er—mistakes. He made his choice 
with his eyes open—” 

“Choice!” Julia said. “It’s a bad policy to place 
young people in a position where they must make 
a choice, Mr. Harcott.” 

“In this case,” he said sternly, “we had no choice 
but to act as we did. To have him inform us— 
scarcely an hour after his release from jail—after 
what his mother and I had suffered on his account 
—that he was going on with this affair that had 
brought him—that had brought us all—nothing but 
unhappiness—” 

“That wasn’t his fault or Lora’s,” Julia said, 
hands tight clasped in her lap, youthful blue eyes 
wide and bright. “It was ours—yours and mine and 
your wife’s. If we hadn’t been more concerned with 
our own petty personal animosities, than with them, 
it needn’t have brought us anything but joy.” 


264 And Both Were Young 

“They were so young—” 

“They loved each other—” 

“We couldn’t be sure of that. Boys and girls of 
that age often mistake other emotions for love, Mrs. 
Paris. The divorce courts are kept busy by mis¬ 
guided young people who—” 

“Oh, no, they’re not. They’re kept busy by mis¬ 
guided parents like you and me. Good parents can 
discourage an unsuitable marriage for their children 
as easily as they can promote a happy one. But they 
can’t do it with lies. That old minister last summer 
—he saw through us. He knew Lora and Judd would 
never have gone to him—if we hadn’t driven them 
to him. And he knew we were tricking them. Every¬ 
thing that has happened since then has been more 
our fault than theirs.” She looked straight into his 
eyes. “This may sound hard, but you’ll notice I’m 
not sparing myself. I’ve been just as blind and 
stupid as you have.” 

He cleared his throat, his eyes wavered from hers, 
“I admit that much of what you say is, unfortunately, 
true. However—” 

“But it was more your fault than ours,” Julia said, 
“because we never disliked Judd as you did Lora. 
We thought he was a dear boy and we still think 
so. And, now that you’ve turned him out, I’m going 
to make it my business to find him. If he and Lora 
still love each other, I no longer see any reason why 


And Both Were Young 265 

they shouldn’t marry.” She stood up, flung out 
her hands in a gesture of finality. “That is what I 
meant when I said that if you hadn’t come here, I 
should have hunted you up—to tell you this.” 

He got to his feet, too, his face was as flushed, his 
eyes as defiant as her own. “And why do you think 
I came here—to return your daughter’s drawings 
that any messenger could have brought? Do you 
suppose you’re the only one to discover that we’ve 
been blind and stupid, as you express it! And you 
talk of finding Judd! Do you think / haven’t tried 
to do that? I believed he was already married to 
your daughter—but I’ve tried to find him all the 
same. I appealed to your husband but he refused 
to see me, refused to read my letters—” 

“Naturally!” Julia said crisply. 

“I’ve even employed detectives. Mrs. Paris, I can’t 
—find—my son! That’s why I came here—to ask you 
to help me.” 

His chin dropped lower between his sagging shoul¬ 
ders; he seemed to be shrinking into something in¬ 
effably old and fleshless before Julia’s very eyes and 
she laid her hand on his shoulder with quick com¬ 
passion. “I’m sorry—sit down again, please. I didn’t 
realize—of course, I’ll help. And we’re sure to find 
him.” 

“Today when I saw Lora—I thought my heart 
would never beat again. I was so sure I had found 


266 And Both Were Young 

him—that she would know—” he stopped, smiled at 
her sadly. “She called me a beast.” 

“She was terribly shocked and upset. She wouldn’t 
have done such a thing otherwise.” 

“I wouldn’t have cared what she called me—if she 
had only told me where to find my son.” 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Harcott. People can’t just 
drop out of existence—” 

“But that’s what he has done. I traced him to the 
pawnshop where he pawned his suitcases. Beyond 
that—nothing—nothing. It’s killing his mother—she 
doesn’t know I’ve been searching for him, she still 
feels—or pretends to feel—that we couldn’t have 
acted differently, but it’s killing her all the same.” 

Julia looked at him, slumped there in his chair 
and her tears brimmed over. “We’ll find him all 
right,” she said. “Lora will find him—you know the 
old saying, ‘Love will find a way.’ ” 

He nodded. “Yes, I thought of that, too,” he said. 




-AFTERWARD, WHEN LORA LOOKED BACK ON 

those days, it seemed strange and pitiful to remem¬ 
ber that not once had she doubted she would find 
Judd. She had but to release her need of him and 
he would be sure to come. That was the way she 
thought of it in the beginning when she was free 
to think of it. She had not felt quite free to think 
of it until she had disposed of Ollie Hard. She 
had felt terribly guilty about poor Ollie. 

But Ollie had taken his conge as lightly and good- 
humoredly as he had always taken everything, as 
Julia had predicted he would. It wasn’t, as Julia 
had pointed out, as though he had really loved her. 
He was alone in a foreign country, in just the mood 
to marry any nice girl. “Be perfectly frank with 
him, precious. Ollie’s a man of the world—he’ll un¬ 
derstand.” 

Ollie had understood everything, he had even made 
Lora feel, by some legerdemain of his blithe spirit, 
that she had done him a favor, not by jilting him but 
by letting him in on what he said was undoubtedly 
the renaissance of true romance. 


267 



268 And Both Were Young 

“After all, I fell for you because of your extraor¬ 
dinary constancy to another man, so why should I 
complain?” he said that memorable night at Foyot’s. 
“And of course, it had to end this way—parents 
reconciled, dying mother restored to health, lovers 
reunited! Why should I fly in the face of a tradition 
like that?” 

“We’re not reunited yet, Ollie.” 

“Pooh! That’s a mere technicality. Slip out on 
your balcony one night and cry, ‘Romeo, Romeo, 
wherefore art thou, my Romeo!’ and watch him 
come!” 

She laughed, but the picture this evoked filled 
her eyes with light, her cheeks with color. 

And so it wasn’t hard to dispose of Ollie at all. As 
he said, it had been a purely business arrangement, 
either partner had been at liberty to back out. He 
was very gay and looked very distinguished in his 
dinner clothes with his dark head sleek, his dark 
cheeks flushed with just a shade too much wine per¬ 
haps. But his gay insouciance reduced the whole 
affair to a trifle. 

When he said good night to her in the dark court¬ 
yard of the Pension, he had asked her to kiss him 
good-by. “It’s the second-best man’s privilege to 
kiss the bride, darling, and since I probably won’t 
be able to attend your nuptials, couldn’t you make 
me a small advance?” 


And Both Were Young 269 

She had lifted her face readily enough and he had 
cupped it gently between his hands as a woman cups 
a rose and stooped and kissed her lips. “Good-by, 
little bride—be happy!” 

The Parises sailed for home the following week 
and, by some machinations of fate or perhaps of 
Bailey Harcott, the Harcotts took passage on the 
same ship. Marie knew the story of that meeting in 
the pare, now, and that Julia and her husband were 
conspiring to find her son but the knowledge had 
not affected her as Bailey had hoped and expected 
it would. She acknowledged the Paris family’s pres¬ 
ence on board with the most distant of nods and 
then took to her bed. “I really think it has made 
her hate us worse than ever,” Julia told her hus¬ 
band when she was telling him the story. “I believe 
she’d almost rather never have Judd back at all 
than have him marry Lora. And she’s dying of grief 
—she looks terribly. It’s killing her.” 

“It’s her pride that’s killing her, poor woman,” 
George said and hugged his wife hungrily. “But 
she’ll come round—we were almost as bad—but we’ll 
soon have this business straightened out, now.” 

For he had already begun elaborate sleuthing op¬ 
erations, had already picked up Judd’s scent. True 
it had carried him no farther than it had carried 
Mr. Harcott, thus far, but George said, “You wait, 
the kid’ll turn up all right.” It was his favorite 


270 And Both Were Young 

phrase during the next few weeks, especially in his 
daughter’s presence. He said it more and more 
loudly and emphatically— '‘Hell turn up, pet! You 
wait!” 

And Lora waited, living on hope, comforted by 
the thought that she and her family were united 
in a common cause once more. They understood, 
the past was wiped out. She had the right to love 
Judd now. Her face grew smaller, her eyes bigger. 
“Judd, Judd, where are you, darling? Don’t you 
know that everything is all right now? Can’t you 
feel it?” 

“You wait! You just wait—” 

That was the summer of nineteen-thirty-four and 
presently it was nineteen-thirty-five and then thirty- 
six. Young people stopped dancing to the Boulevard 
of Broken Dreams and the orchestras played Speak 
to Me of Love and, a little later, Red Sails in the Sun¬ 
set. Hats grew smaller and funnier and short-haired 
girls wore false braids around their heads as their 
mothers had done before them. George Paris’s busi¬ 
ness prospered and he bought a house in a fashion¬ 
able neighborhood which Julia promptly turned into 
a cozy, unfashionable home. Hay had begun to 
shave and was looking forward to Yale and Cliff 
Sidney was proving a valuable asset to his father’s 
brokerage business. Lois had gone straight from 


And Both Were Young 271 

college to the altar with the boy who had faithfully 
supplied her with chocolates for four years and Joan 
had taken to novel writing. 

Lora had commercialized her flair for “drawing 
pictures” and for nearly a year now had been luring 
the customers of a smart shop with her gay sketches 
of ladies’ fashions. Her girlhood was gone and Judd 
Harcott was gone. Sometimes it seemed to her that 
she had dreamed him. She was a woman now, her 
thick curls disciplined to a glossy cap, her fair skin 
that had once burned and freckled so easily, smooth 
and clear as the surface of a pearl. But she had de¬ 
veloped a habit of silence and preoccupation that at 
once attracted and repelled friendship. Few young 
men took her out twice for few young men like to 
waste their words and their charms—even on a beau¬ 
tiful woman. And so, lovely as she was, Lora was not 
“popular” and there were times when she was very 
lonely. But she was busy and she no longer con¬ 
sciously mourned for Judd and her lost ecstasies. 

In the fall, nearly two years after she had come 
home from France, Ollie Hard made a flying visit 
to America and came to see her. They had been 
corresponding sporadically for a year. When some of 
Lora’s sketches had appeared in a magazine, he had 
seen them and written to congratulate her. “So 
you’ve turned into one of these career girls, now,” 
he commented gaily. Later he wrote that he was 


272 And Both Were Young 

coming home for a visit. “If you hear of a lunatic 
trying to leap off the ship into the arms of the 
Statue of Liberty, don’t think too badly of me, dar¬ 
ling!” 

He appeared one evening at the Paris house pre¬ 
ceded by a bottle of champagne and a box of orchids. 
Lora pinned the orchids on the shoulder of her black 
velvet hostess gown when she went down to greet 
him. He took both her hands and looked her over 
from the top of her fluted amber head to the toe of 
the velvet sandal showing beneath her trailing skirt, 
and shook his head ruefully. “I knew it! I knew 
you’d go and grow up elegant on me!” 

She laughed and told him she was glad to see him, 
which was true. He looked much the same, a little 
older, of course. The lines around his mouth and 
eyes had deepened, his grin was a little more quizzical, 
but his spirit seemed as blithe, his manner was as 
inconsequent as it had been the night they had 
parted nearly two years before. Neither of them 
spoke of that, Lora had feared Ollie might, that he 
might even mention Judd, for of course he knew 
the story had not “turned out right” after all. But 
he surprised her by being tactful and impersonal. 
They talked of Lora’s job and of Coureville where, 
he said, they’d had so much rain this summer that the 
old Chateau ghost had gone on strike and refused to 
appear. 


273 


And Both Were Young 

“I don’t blame it,” Lora said. 

“It was pretty hard on the tourist trade,” he said 
gravely. “Tourists dote on ghosts. I offered myself 
as a substitute attraction—I wasn’t going to dress up 
in a sheet and moan or anything like that, you under¬ 
stand. But I did think the sight of an American 
bachelor who had survived nearly two years of Coure- 
ville was easily worth fifty centimes a head.” 

“I should think it was!” she said. 

He left next day for the Hard plant upstate and 
a visit with his parents. But he would be in town 
again for three or four days before he sailed, he said, 
and he made Lora promise that she would reserve 
those days for him. “We’ll go places and do things 
—I’ve got to make up for my two years’ exile and 
fortify myself against another two.” 

And so when he came back they went places and 
did things, expensive gay places and things, every 
hour Lora could spare from her job. He kept the 
house filled with flowers, thereby winning Julia’s 
heart, and George liked him, too. Sometimes Lora 
would come home from her office and find him 
sitting smoking and discussing iceboxes and politics 
with her father. George said, “He’s a nut, but you 
can’t help liking him.” 

On the night before he sailed, Lora said she was 
too tired to go dancing and they came straight home 
after the theatre. They went down to the deserted 


274 Find Both IF ere Young 

kitchen and found some beer on the ice and sat at the 
kitchen table and ate bread and cheese and drank 
beer. Ollie said, “This is grand. Nothing like cozy 
domestic pleasures, after all, is there?” 

“If you’ll stay over another day, we’ll have a taffy 
pulling party tomorrow night,” Lora said. 

But he shook his head. “It’s going to be hard 
enough as it is to return to my lonely exile.” 

She said, “If you’re lonely, it’s your own fault.” 

“I know,” he said. “I could have had half a 
dozen girls in Coureville but the prospect of quar¬ 
reling in French kind of scared me off.” He drained 
his glass and set it down sadly. “I’d kind of planned 
to look over some prospects here when I came home, 
but I’ve been so busy—you don’t happen to know 
of anyone who might answer my purpose, do you?” 

She had been sitting with her elbows propped on 
the table, her chin on her hands, looking at him 
with that wide, preoccupied gaze of hers. But now 
her gaze focused and she saw that there was a ter¬ 
rible urgency in his dark eyes. She shook her head, 
said lightly, “Not at the moment. I’ll keep it in 
mind, though.” 

“I don’t want to be too optimistic,” he said. “But 
I think I could even guarantee the ghost—he ought 
to be dried out soon.” And then he leaned across 

i 

the table and touched her hand. “You wouldn’t re¬ 
consider my offer, would you, Lora?” 


And Both Were Young 275 

She shoved back her chair and laughed. “Now you 
are being foolish!” 

“I suppose I am,” he said. “I suppose maybe that’s 
gotten to be a habit. So have you—I mean, think¬ 
ing about you and kind of hoping— You see you 
spoiled me for any other girl, darling, and when I 
heard—well, that there wasn’t anybody else—there 
isn’t anybody else now, is there, Lora?” 

“No,” she said, “there isn’t anybody else, now— 
but there is my job.” 

“Your boss could easily find someone to take your 
place. I can’t.” 

She was not deceived by that careless insouciance 
now. She could have cried for him. Instead she 
shook her head and tried to smile. “I’m terribly flat¬ 
tered, Ollie—not by what you said about my job—” 

“I didn’t mean to belittle your job, darling, but 
think how much more suitable mine would be!” 

She began, “I’m not at all sure of that,” but he 
stopped her, jumping up, coming around the table 
to her chair. 

“I am, Lora. I’m sure. So were you once, remem¬ 
ber? Remember how we both thought what a swell 
idea it was? Well, I still think it is. Why can’t we go 
on from there—as though nothing had happened to 
interfere? Come back to Coureville with me—I’ll see 
you don’t regret it!” 

His face under the hard, bright kitchen lights was 


276 And Both Were Young 

strained and white and she could feel the tension 
of his body as he stood there waiting. She realized 
suddenly how fond of him she was, as fond of him, 
perhaps, as most women were of the men they 
married. She could not hope for more than this, she 
could never hope for the ecstasies she had squan¬ 
dered in her youth. 

“I—I don’t know what to say, Ollie.” 

“It begins with a Y and ends with an S,” he said 
and dropped to his knees beside her chair and took 
her hands in his. “And there’s an E in the middle. 
Say it, darling.” 

She shook her head. “I—I really wish I could. 
But I can’t.” 

“Why? You said there was no one else. It isn’t— 
it can’t be that other affair, is it, Lora? That’s all 
over, isn’t it? He never did show up, did he?” 

“No. He never did show up.” 

“Then it can’t be—you can't still be waiting, my 
dear—after all this time! You can’t! That’s not fair! 
It’s not fair to yourself.” 

She said, in an agony of trying to put into words 
something she had never put into words before, 
“I’ve got to be fair to him. I’m not still waiting— 
not really waiting, Ollie. But don’t you see, if Judd is 
still alive and if he’s hungry or ill or lonely, it’s be¬ 
cause of me.” 


“Nonsense!” 


And Both Were Young 277 

She gave him a sad little smile. “It does sound 
like nonsense, doesn’t it? But it’s true. I can’t for¬ 
get that it was through me he was cheated out of 
everything that was rightfully his, everything he 
deserved. I don’t often think of him any more. I 
don’t even know that he’d feel at all the same about 
me if he did come back—or that I would feel the 
same about him. But he might —and until I know— 
whether he’s all right or—or dead, I won’t ever feel 
free to marry anyone else.” 

He said, “My dear girl, if you’d any idea how mor¬ 
bid all that sounds, you would never say it. Letting 
something that happened when you were a schoolgirl 
ruin your whole life—make a lonely old maid of you 
—and an embittered bachelor of me!” He took her 
by the shoulders and shook her gently from side to 
side. “Wake up, darling! This is almost nineteen- 
thirty-six! These things aren’t done! Beautiful ladies 
no longer burn candles in their windows to light 
their lost loves home and die old maids in their 
yellowed wedding dresses! How do you suppose that 
lost love of yours would feel if he knew you were 
wasting your life because of him? I’ll tell you how 
he’d feel! He’d feel it was pretty doggone mean of 
you, making him responsible! That’s how he’d feel, 
darling!” 

Flags of hot color flared in her cheeks. “You think 
you’re being terribly clever, don’t you?” 


278 And Both Were Young 

“I’m doing my darnedest! Lora, Lora, will you 
see sense—and marry me?” 

“I—I don’t know. I’ll think about it—” He 
reached for her but she held him off. “No, please! 
You’ll have to be patient, Ollie. But—if you’ll wait 
a little longer—say until Spring—if I feel then that 
it’s all right and you still want me—” 




T WAS STILL RAINING IN COUREVILLE WHEN 

Ollie Hard returned. The little town was sodden, 
the fronts of the stone houses glassy with wet, the 
cobbled streets oozing slush and mud. Though fires 
burned in every room. Ollie’s old walled house 
reeked with must and dampness and when he drove 
out to his office at the plant beyond the town walls, 
his light car slithered and skidded dangerously in 
the muddy roads. 

But Ollie was happier than he had ever been in 
his nearly thirty years of life. He whistled more, 
drank less and wooed his customers with such be¬ 
guiling charm that they were amazed to find it still 
raining when they left him. Once or twice a month 
he drove to Marseilles where he dined sometimes 
with American friends or went to the theatre or 
simply ambled happily around the streets, absorbing 
their noisy excitement and dreaming of Spring and 
Lora. 

He was fond of strolling about the vieux port, 
where he could see the ships at anchor in the rdde 


279 


280 And Both Were Young 

beyond the great V-shaped breakwater or of stopping 
for an oporto at some sidewalk cafe on the old Place 
de la Joliette, always aswarm with a hundred varie¬ 
ties of sans-sous —penniless sailors, stevedores, ragged 
beachcombers. He sat thus one late December after¬ 
noon sipping his watery wine and enjoying the first 
watery rays of sun he had seen in weeks. In the cen¬ 
ter of the place a ship’s officer was signing on a 
crew from a crowd of milling, shouting men. 

Ollie was watching them amusedly and thinking 
it was as well that a ship’s passengers did not know 
the quality of her crew when a swarthy little man 
broke from the crush, started running across the 
place. He had not covered ten yards when another 
man was after him. The pursuer’s legs were longer 
than the swarthy man’s, they rose and fell like 
pistons and as he ran he roared in as forceful and 
picturesque a mixture of French and English as Ollie 
had ever heard. 

“Au voleur! Hey, come back here with that or I’ll 
wring your dirty neck— Holla! Pig of a pig, halt, or 
I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear—hey! Stop thief! 
Holla-” 

A narrow alley ran alongside the cafe before which 
Ollie sat and it was clear the swarthy man knew this. 
As he approached the cafe, Ollie automatically rose 
and braced himself. He had no desire to get himself 
mixed up with that unpalatable looking pair but 


And Both Were Young 281 

after all, the long-legged man sounded suspiciously 
like one of his own countrymen and it is second 
nature for an honest man to stop a thief—though no 
one else in the place appeared aware of this. As the 
swarthy man made a dive for the alley, Ollie shot 
out his arm and the thief went down with a force 
that must have loosened his teeth. 

His pursuer was on him in a moment. They rolled 
over and over on the muddy cobbles snarling like 
infuriated dogs. Ollie stood by, a little uncertain 
what to do next and then he caught sight of the knife 
in the swarthy man’s hand. He yelled, “Look out, 
Yank!” and leaped into the fray. 

When they finally captured the knife, it had left 
its mark on them both; on the long-legged man’s 
cheek and on Ollie’s wrist. But they had effectually 
subdued the thief; he lay in the mud grinning wick¬ 
edly as Yank went plunging through his ragged 
pockets. Finally Yank gave a grunt of satisfaction, 
drew out his hand and opened it for Ollie to see. 
In the palm lay a plain gold ring. Ollie thought it 
looked like a wedding ring. 

“Is that what he stole from you?” 

Yank nodded, panting. “The dirty little rat!” 

“What are we going to do with him?” 

Yank considered that, eyeing the perfectly mute 
grinning face on the ground between them. “Well, 
I’ve got my ring so I guess I’ll just give him a kick 


282 And Both Were Young 

in the pants and let him go. Come on, baby! Upsy- 
daisy!” He dragged the thief to his feet, turned him 
around and lifted his foot. It was shod in as dilapi¬ 
dated a shoe as Ollie had seen in a long time, but 
there was power behind it. The swarthy man went 
catapulting into the alley like a tossed ball. Yank 
watched him go, pocketed the ring and grinned at 
Ollie. “That’ll do him more good than turning him 
over to the gendarmerie. Thanks for nabbing him— 
thanks a lot.” 

“That’s all right. You’ve got a pretty bad cut on 
your cheek.” 

Yank inspected the cheek with a soiled forefinger 
and looked at the blood on Ollie’s hand. “Say, he 
carved you up, too!” 

“Oh, mine isn’t bad, but I think we’d better go 
over to the chemist and let him clean us up. Can’t 
tell what was on that knife.” 

“You’d better do that. I’ll be all right. I’ve got 
to—” he whirled and looked into the place, but the 
ship’s officer was gone, the crowd scattering. “Hell, 
that so and so cheated me out of a berth.” 

“Well, now there’s no reason why you shouldn’t 
come along and get that thing washed up.” The 
Yank demurred but Ollie insisted. “Don’t be a 
fool. If it’s the cost you’re worrying about, it’s my 
treat. I haven’t had so much fun in a dog’s age. 
Come along—then we’ll have a drink, eh?” 


And Both Were Young 283 

Fifteen minutes later they were back at the cafe 
table, their wounds nicely dressed, drinking an 
oporto together. Ollie suspected his guest would 
have enjoyed something more substantial for his 
unshaven cheeks were too hollow, his sunken brown 
eyes had the glazed look common to men who have 
had too little food and sleep. But, despite his muddy 
corduroy trousers and shabby seaman’s coat, there 
was a jaunty air of independence about him. And 
so Ollie ordered only the oporto , for the ethics that 
forbid a proud beggar to accept a meal will always 
permit him to accept a drink. 

Yank explained about the theft. “He happened to 
see me drop the ring at Dirty Joe’s this morning- 
place I’ve been putting up—and like a fool I put 
it back in the same pocket.” 

“And that crowd gave him the chance he was 
waiting for,” Ollie said and then carelessly, “Are 
you a sailor?” 

The Yank grinned. “I’m anything that happens 
to need a pair of hands.” 

Ollie said, “You’re from the States, aren’t you?” 

“How’d you guess?” 

“Intuition,” Ollie said. “Been over here long?” 

“Here and a lot of other places.” 

“The old itching foot, eh?” 

The Yank’s grin widened. “That’s it.” The 
oporto had brought color up under the dark stub- 


284 And Both Were Young 

ble of his beard, given a brighter polish to his brown 
eyes. “It’s a great life.” 

“If your shoes hold out,” Ollie said dryly and 
then, before his guest could answer, “Why don’t 
you get a regular job and settle down?” 

The Yank tipped back his chair and wagged his 
head sadly. “That’s the worst of you good citizens. 
You never meet up with a free spirit that you don’t 
want to put it in a clean shirt and chain it up in 
four walls.” 

Ollie said good-naturedly, “I know, but I kind of 
hate to see an able-bodied American like you knock¬ 
ing around with all this dirty scum. As a matter 
of fact, I could use a man like you.” 

Yank laughed outright. “Thanks—but how do 
you know you could? How do you know what kind 
of a man I am?” 

“Well, I know you can fight and I’ve heard you 
curse in two languages. They’d be useful talents in 
an American shop employing a bunch of French 
workmen.” 

Yank lowered the front legs of his chair. “You 
mean you’ve got a shop over here—in France?” 

“Place called Coureville—about twenty kilometers 
from here. We manufacture electric iceboxes, vac¬ 
uum cleaners—that sort of thing. Some of the parts 
we make over here, some are sent over from the 
home plant—got quite a business. You said you were 


And Both Were Young 285 

looking for a berth, why not come out to Coure- 
ville—let’s see what you can do?” 

The Yank’s eyes were on his glass. “I’ve been 
kind of on the lookout for something over here—I 
mean, I haven’t got any particular yen to go back 
to the States—feel more at home over here, as a mat¬ 
ter of fact. But I don’t know a damn thing about 
iceboxes.” 

Ollie looked at his watch and stood up. “Well, 
you could learn. If you feel like giving it a try, 
come out and see me. A bus comes out two-three 
times a day—just ask for Hard. Oliver Hard’s my 
name—got a card here somewhere.” 

“Mine’s Harris,” the Yank said, taking the card 
from Ollie. “And thanks. I’ll be seeing you tomor¬ 
row, then.” 

But, as Ollie told Lora when he was writing her of 
his adventure the following evening, he never 
expected to see his free spirit again— 

“—so you may imagine my surprise to find him wander¬ 
ing around the shop when I got out there this morning. 
I knew it was too early for the first bus—the poor devil 
must have done the twenty kilometers on foot. I imagine 
he was getting fed up with the free life. He hadn’t any 
visible luggage outside of a paper package, so I ad¬ 
vanced him a little money and got him a room at old 
Madame Raymond’s—I suppose the next thing he’ll 
be murdering her in her bed and walking off with the 
silver—” 


286 And Both Were Young 

When Lora answered that letter, her tone was 
warmer than it had been before— 

“Even if he turns out to be a thief or a murderer 
you’ve done something pretty wonderful. But what a 
fraud you are, Ollie! Here you’ve been posing as a 
hard-boiled cynic and all the time you were just a dar¬ 
ling old big-hearted softie—” 

That set Ollie up, made him regard his vagabond 
with an even more tender eye. And the free spirit 
of the Place de la Joliette in a clean shirt and sound 
shoes, shaved and brushed, was a more heartening 
sight than his new boss could have believed pos¬ 
sible. Only time and good food could fill out the 
hollowed cheeks, nothing but a regular application of 
soap and water could wash the grime from those 
hardened hands, but even so John Harris was begin¬ 
ning to look like a respectable citizen. “A darned 
good-looking boy,” he wrote Lora proudly. “Can’t 
be more than twenty-four or five.” 

Her praise was so sweet that his letters during 
the next few weeks had a good deal to say of his 
new employee—how intelligent he was, how well he 
was taking hold of things— 

“—I’ve been using him in the office lately. He’s more 
useful to me there than in the shop. Of course I’ve 
known from the first he was no ordinary bum. It’s my 
guess he’s a college man—though he’s never said so, 
never mentions his past at all, but I figure he got into 


And Both Were Young 287 

some scrape at home and probably his wife left him 
and he lit out in a huff, kid-like. This is only a guess, 
of course, but I’m almost certain that ring was a wed¬ 
ding ring. 

“Darling, can you smell the Spring over there? It’s 
already here—my fig trees are in bloom and Jacques has 
planted les haricots and the ghost appeared on the north 
turret of the chateau last night. You remember I prom¬ 
ised you the ghost—” 

When Lora had read that letter over and over, she 
took it down to the living room where her father 
and mother were sitting, reading the paper and 
waiting for dinner to be announced. George glanced 
up over the top of his glasses and said “Hello, pet!” 
and Julia said, “What have you got there, dear?” 
and suddenly laid down her paper and sat up straight, 
realizing that Lora had not changed her office dress, 
sensing from the look on her daughter’s face that 
something was wrong. “What is it, darling?” 

“I want you to read this, mum—you, too, dad, 
please. It’s from Ollie. You remember my telling 
you how he picked up a tramp in Marseilles last 
winter? Well, I think it’s Judd.” 

George and Julia exchanged a quick look and, 
together, read Ollie’s letter. Then Julia said gently, 
“But my dearest, there are hundreds of boys like 
that drifting around the world.” 

“I know,” Lora said. “It seems absurd for me to 


288 And Both Were Young 

feel so sure. But I do. I feel positive it’s Judd. I was 
almost sure the last time Ollie wrote—now this— 
about the ring—” 

“Yes, there’s that,” Julia said. “What do you 
think, dad?” 

George shook his head. “I suppose it could be 
Judd Harcott just as easily as it could be John Jones 
—or Harris. It’s possible but not probable. But if 
Lora feels this way, we’d better look into it.” He got 
up. “Have you kept those other letters of Ollie’s, 
kitten?” Lora said she had and George said, “Well, 
why not bring ’em down and let your mother and 
me look ’em over?” 

When she had gone up for the letters, Julia turned 
tensely to her husband. “It couldn’t be, could it, 
dear? But, oh, if it only were Judd! If she could 
just know!” 

“Wouldn’t mind knowing myself,” George said. 

When they had gone carefully over Ollie’s letters, 
read and re-read every reference to the redeemed free 
spirit, they had no more reason for believing that 
John Harris was Judd Harcott than they had had 
before—but they did believe it, nevertheless. George 
Paris still refused to admit this, repeated that it was 
one chance in a million— “But it’s easy enough to 
find out,” he said, “easy enough for Ollie to find 
out, that is. If I were you, Lora, I’d get a letter right 
off to him. And I’ll drop a line to Bailey Harcott. 


And Both Were Young 289 

I gave him my word I’d let him know the minute 
anything new turned up.” 

Julia said, “But wouldn’t that be premature, dear? 
It might not be Judd at all and it’s so awful to raise 
their hopes—” 

“Pooh, it’s hope that keeps us alive,” George said. 
“They’ve a right to know as much as we know.” 

So, while Lora was writing Ollie, George wrote 
Bailey Harcott and three nights later, Judd’s father 
and mother appeared at the Paris house. 

Julia and George and Lora were in the living 
room, the meeting between the two families who had 
not met since their return from Europe, was casual 
and urbane enough though Julia was shocked by the 
change in Marie Harcott. Her once heavy figure 
was painfully thin, cheeks flabby under their skill¬ 
ful makeup, her restive eyes sunk in dark pouches. 
But she still held herself proudly, her voice had the 
old imperious ring. 

She said, “Oddly enough, we were planning a trip 
to New York and when your letter came we thought 
we might as well come now as later.” 

“I’m glad you did,” Julia said warmly. “If only 
we haven’t raised your hopes too high.” 

“Oh, dear, no. As I’ve been telling Bailey for 
two years now, when Judd’s ready to come home, 
he’ll come, never fear!” 

Which made it clear that the change in Marie Har- 


290 And Both Were Young 

cott did not extend beyond the physical. This be¬ 
came more and more apparent as they talked. It 
was Bailey who pressed them for particulars, who 
listened with heart-breaking intensity while Lora read 
the references to John Harris from Ollie’s letters. 
Marie sat with her eyes on the purse in her lap, occa¬ 
sionally she would shake her head, or lift an incredu¬ 
lous shoulder or drop a comment— “Of course that 
might mean anything—or nothing.” When the wed¬ 
ding ring was mentioned, she said, “Isn’t it a bit 
too romantic to suppose he would have kept that all 
this time?” 

When Lora had finished, she folded the letters and 
said quietly, speaking to Mr. Harcott, “It’s just a 
hunch—perfectly illogical and unreasonable—but I 
feel it’s Judd.” 

“I’m inclined to agree,” George Paris said. “He’s 
Judd’s age, his description answers Judd’s. It all 
seems to add up.” 

Julia said, “Well, we’ll know soon. Lora ought to 
hear from Ollie in a week or so. She asked him to 
cable her.” 

Bailey Harcott got to his feet, began to pace the 
floor. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t cable him. 
What’s this man, Hard’s address? After all, why 
wait? Besides—well, Judd’s sensitive—and he’s proud. 
He won’t know what our attitude is toward him 
and if this man begins to question him, he might 


And Both Were Young 291 

light out again. Now if we cable him and tell him 
everything’s okay—” 

“Simply cable him to come home at once and stop 
being ridiculous,” Marie said. “Tell him—well, that 
all is forgiven—something like that!” 

“I’d rather you didn’t do that, Mrs. Harcott,” 
Lora said. 

They all turned to stare at her in astonishment 
and Marie Harcott’s face went scarlet. “You’d rather 
I didn’t do it!” 

“I don’t think Judd needs to be forgiven,” Lora 
said. “Neither of us want to be forgiven—I think 
we’ve expiated our sins.” 

“Are you dictating what I should say to my own 
son?” 

“This man may not be your son.” 

“That’s for me to find out!” 

“No,” Lora said gently, “it’s for me to find out 
and I’ve done what I’ve thought was wise. I’ve writ¬ 
ten Mr. Hard who understands everything and who 
will make Judd—if it is Judd—understand everything 
and leave him free to come home or to stay—to do 
what he thinks is best.” 

Marie was leaning forward in her chair, her big 
white hands spread on the arms. She cried, “Who 
are you to decide what is wise—” 

“I might have been his wife,” Lora said. “I never 
was. I may never be. But we’re adults now. I 


292 And Both Were Young 

think we’ve earned the right to be free—to make 
our own decisions—without interference.” 

Julia said, “Lora! Lora, darling!” 

Marie’s hoarse voice drowned out that gentle pro¬ 
test. “Do you realize you’re talking to his mother!” 

“Yes,” Lora said, her face white as the white clus¬ 
ter of flowers at the throat of her black frock, “but 
you sent him away from you on my account. That 
makes me responsible for him, don’t you see?” 

“In short, you refuse to give us that address so 
that I can cable my own son!” 

Lora slid forward in her chair, her hands clasped 
tight, like a little girl in prayer. “I’m afraid to give 
it to you—please, please don’t ask me! I don’t mean 
to be rude—but you can’t realize what this means 
to me, Mrs. Harcott—after all these years of being 
bound—more closely bound than if Judd and I had 
really gone through with that marriage ceremony. 
You can’t know what it means to be almost a wife 
and almost a widow—without ever having been 
either!” 

“And you think,” Marie Harcott said, shaking, 
“you actually believe that after all this time you 
two are going to feel the same about each other?” 

“I don’t know! That’s what I’m trying to tell 
you! How can I know—I don’t suppose Judd knows, 
either, but I do know that we must have the chance 
to find out—for ourselves!” 


And Both Were Young 293 

“She’s right,” Bailey Harcott burst out suddenly. 
“Perfectly right. It’s time we laid off, Marie. If 
this fellow is Judd, it’s her first privilege to know it. 
Let’s give ’em a chance to settle their score before 
we butt in. After all, if it’s Judd, it’s Lora who has 
found him for us—” 

“And for—herself,” Marie Harcott said, getting 
the words out with a terrible effort but managing 
to invest them with a note of playful indulgence. 
“Which, I suppose, is—quite natural! Well!” She 
stood up, wagged her head with playful solemnity at 
Lora. “I hadn’t realized—that love’s young dream 
—could be so enduring.” She actually went to Lora 
and gave the bright head a little pat. “I suppose 
all mothers must expect to take second place in their 
children’s hearts sometime, my dear.” 

Julia had to clap her hand over her mouth to keep 
from shouting, “Bravo! Old Girl!” and George said 
heartily, “Second place your grandmother. It’s 
merely a question of sharing—” 

A few days after that, Lora received Ollie’s cable. 
It read— 

“Harcott is the name and is my face red stop Out of 
all the tramps floating around the world I had to pick 
the lost lover stop I would stop Well I might have 
known I was only a cog in the wheel of destiny stop And 
I am flattered that for once in my life I was permitted 
to play a role worthy of my heroic talents stop. Your 


294 And Both Were Young 

boy friend has been suffering from bad inferiority com¬ 
plex but now he knows all is well is recovering and 
will probably be with you shortly stop Now the story 
is complete and who am I to begrudge it the happy 
ending stop Blessings my children—Ollie.” 

Lora forwarded that cable to Mrs. Harcott after 
she had cried over it a little. Her tears were for Ollie, 
not for Judd! She had known that John Harris was 
Judd. But she smiled a little bitterly at Ollie’s as¬ 
sumption that the happy ending had now been 
achieved. As though she and Judd could so easily 
bridge those dreadful years, as though they could 
so easily renew the sweet and terrible ecstasy of their 
youth. No, they were man and woman, not boy and 
girl, now, and as man and woman they were free 
at last to know their own hearts. 

Lora did not know hers. She could not tell how 
she would feel when she met Judd again. But the 
emotional inertia that had held her was lifted now, 
excitement stirred in her, lent new zest to every new 
day. Riding to her office on the bus, lying staring 
at her ceiling at night after the light was out, she 
would picture that meeting with Judd. She would 
be in her room, perhaps, and the maid would come 
up and say, “Mr. Harcott is calling, Miss Lora.” She 
would be wearing her sapphire gown, perhaps, and 
she would see herself with Judd’s eyes, coming down 
the stairs with the light on her hair and her long 


And Both Were Young 295 

skirts trailing. He would say, “Why, Lora! Is it 
really you, my dear!” Or she would be coming back 
from the opera and the tall strange young man wait¬ 
ing on the hall sofa would rise up at sight of the 
strange young woman in her furred evening wrap 
and the flowers on her shoulder. “Lora—!” 

She never got beyond that first greeting, never 
knew how she felt nor what she said— 

One day early in May she hopped off the Lexing¬ 
ton Avenue bus and started up the quiet block of 
brownstone houses toward her own house. It had 
been an unseasonably hot day and she was fagged 
and sticky in her tweed business suit. The collar 
of her blouse had wilted, her head was hot under her 
felt sports hat and she dragged it off and carried it in 
her hand along with her heavy portfolio. 

As she approached her house she saw a man come 
out and start down the street. He passed her, walk¬ 
ing rapidly, then turned and caught up with her 
again. When he was abreast of her, he said, “I beg 
your pardon but aren’t you—well, Lora!” 

She glanced up at him none too cordially and 
could not take her eyes off that remembered face—a 
little thinner, a little older, but the same ruddy 
brown hair growing back thick and crisp from the 
temples, the same warm ruddy brown eyes, the same 
smile—a little tremulous, now. “Why—Judd!” 

“I—gosh! I didn’t know you for a minute—and 


296 And Both Were Young 

that’s funny,” he said, his eyes swinging over her— 
so young and slender in the utilitarian suit and boy¬ 
ish collar, mussed hair bright in the sunshine—“be¬ 
cause you—you haven’t changed a bit!” 

“Neither have you. I—where did you come from 
—I mean when did you—” 

“I just landed this afternoon. Here, let me carry 
that—I’ve already been to the house, been talking to 
your mother. She said you wouldn’t be along for 
an hour or so so I thought I’d go get a shave—” and 
he ran an apologetic hand over his cheek. “I hated 
to take time out—” 

“Just today—you just landed! Well, I—I hardly 
expected—come on in—” She had some difficulty 
getting the key in its lock. She was wondering if 
her own face was as dirty as it felt, thinking, “Noth¬ 
ing ever does happen right—” She said, “I’m dirty 
as a pig—it’s been terribly hot in the office.” But 
it was cool in the spacious hall of the house, cool and 
deserted. She slammed the door behind them, said, 
“Sit down while I run up and—” 

“Wait—just a minute,” his hand was on her arm, 
turning her around. “I—I just want to—look at you.” 

The touch of his hand took all the strength out 
of her. Her heart began to beat so hard and fast 
that she thought it would suffocate her. But it 
couldn’t be like this—after three years! It couldn’t! 
“I—I’ll be—right down—” 


And Both Were Young 297 

“Lora?” he said very softly, a breathless question, 
his face bending to hers, his hand drawing her toward 
him. “Lora—dear?” 

She lifted her eyes and they looked at each other, 
a look full of fear and hope and wonder. Then Lora 
drew a long, sobbing breath and his arms closed 
round her. “Lora, little Lora without the U!” 

And she had thought it would take so long because 
now they were grown up. She had forgotten that 
love never grows up. 








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